


Thicker than a Knife's Blade

by ficthepainaway



Series: Freddy [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficthepainaway/pseuds/ficthepainaway
Summary: Jacob and Freddy break up, then make up…fifteen years later. (Takes place after the main game, up to and through the events of Jack the Ripper.)





	1. Prologue

**1888**

Jacob rips a page from an old book and writes his sister's name at the top. His hand shakes over the affirmation, impossible to deny for a second longer: _The Brotherhood has been compromised._

He can't think of how to help Evie but to send her to the last friend he's seen, the same friend who carries an urgent message to be sent to India by telegraph: Nellie. But how can he point Evie in the right direction without putting Nellie in harm's way, if Jack finds the letter instead? He scrawls a clumsy reference to unfortunates and their childhood neighbor. Jack could parse the meaning there, possibly, but there's no time for Jacob to revise.

He hobbles to the fireplace to slip the note into the statuette of Kali the Destroyer on the mantle, thinking, _Find it, Evie, please._ He doesn't notice the bloody fingerprints he leaves behind, and he won't know how Evie will press her own fingers to the stains, her throat tight.

Jacob returns to the desk, holding a hand over the stinging gash in his side. Jack wore down the others the same way, but even if he's predictable, he's powerful. Too strong to block, too fast to dodge. Jacob can't put Freddy on Jack's trail and expect him to survive where Assassins fell…but he can't betray him again either.

He gathers the documents together and tucks them under his arm. These files have all the information Freddy needs to disrupt Jack's web of influence—it's ammo Jacob should have given to him weeks ago. He spins, ready to tuck them…somewhere. The loose floorboard? The sofa?

Jack's voice cuts through the dusty flat— _Going somewhere, Jacob?_ —and all the air leaves Jacob's lungs. It's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Virginia Woolf: "Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy."


	2. No Scar to Show for Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting with a timeskip, of which there will be many, but the bulk of this fic takes place in 1888. The Jack the Ripper DLC replicates a lot of the history of the Ripper murders and reimagines some details in hat-tip worthy ways. At the same time, some of the jumbled facts are impossible to justify, and many of them open up plot holes. I did my darndest to meld the fiction and the history into a harmonious whole.
> 
> I'm dropping some of my resources in the endnotes of each chapter in case anyone wants to use them as they muddle through writing Syndicate fic.
> 
> A million billion thanks to [LivaWilborg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg) for an unbelievably speedy beta. (We're talkin' 20K words in under 24 hours.) You're the best—truly.

**1870**

"It's a…'peryton,' apparently," Jacob says, leaning close to read the plaque.

"It's a roe deer with wings glued to its back," Freddy mutters. P.J. Whittaker's Gallery of Freak Fauna has yet to introduce them to anything that would 'dumbfound Darwin,' as its tagline proclaims, though it has shown them some impressively creative taxidermy. That is probably worth the penny each that they paid to walk inside. "And those wings would be too small to hold it in flight, besides."

"Maybe perytons are flightless," Jacob supplies reasonably. He stands back to regard the stuffed beast, preserved and made mutant. "Like penguins."

Freddy hums, mock-thoughtful. "Right, or like deer." That makes Jacob snort.

A cluster of people leaves the previous display (a rooster conjoined with a fox) and pushes into Freddy and Jacob's space by the peryton. Jacob jerks his head toward the exit, and Freddy follows him through the dim, dry hallway and out into the open air of the park. The traveling carnival is bustling with curious guests and curiouser attractions. Some of those attractions are closed off by cabinets or curtains, but throughout the park there are acts on the move: a giantess performing with a man no taller than a toddler, a woman with no arms or legs duplicating classical paintings with a paintbrush held in her mouth, a mostly-naked sword-swallower so covered in tattoos he doesn't look naked at all.

Jacob and Freddy walk the long way through the carnival, down a winding path turned from grass to mud by so many shoes, then onto the street.

"If you had a…blessing," Freddy says, straining to remember the term, "and joined a freak show, what would your role be?"

Jacob replies without hesitation. "Strongman, of course." He lifts his arms to flex and accidentally clips a pedestrian trying to walk around them. He finishes apologizing to the stranger, then says, "I could join today, probably. And you?"

Freddy opens his mouth to reply, but Jacob gets there first. "Wait—don't answer, I know this one." He reaches over and pinches one of Freddy's sidewhiskers, giving it a little tug. "Bearded lady," Jacob finishes, low.

Freddy knocks his hand away, fighting back a smile. "Har har."

"You already have the costume and everything! Should we turn back?" Jacob says, stopping Freddy with a hand on his elbow. Freddy doesn't answer and instead hails a hansom that's rolling up the street.

They climb in and Freddy pops open the hatch at the back of the roof to give the driver an address in Whitechapel. The driver assents with a grunt (cabmen tend to avoid the borough, where they're unlikely to find another fare). Jacob folds the doors closed over their legs and—out of sight from driver, queen, and country—he threads his fingers through Freddy's. A simple motion made hundreds of times before, but it never fails to warm Freddy from top to toe.

"What's got you smiling?" Jacob murmurs, squeezing Freddy's hand. "Are you ready to laugh at my bearded lady joke?"

"I am not," Freddy replies, going for stern. He thinks of the first time he and Jacob met—Jacob in his worn-out country rags, Freddy in his old woman disguise—sniping at each other straight out of the gate. "Plainclothes operations can be very risky and have to be personally approved by the superintendent of police. They are no laughing matter."

"All the same, isn't crossdressing a crime?" Jacob asks with a niggling nudge. "Is there any other criminal activity you can get approved by the boss, while you're at it?"

Freddy rolls his eyes and holds his gaze on the roof of the cab. "For the last time, Jacob, I'm not going to petition for formal protections for your Rooks under the Order of the Garter. They are not 'defenders of the realm.'"

Jacob laughs dryly. "That was a joke about buggery, actually," he explains. "Where's your sense of humor today, Freddy?"

It's true; he's been in a mood. Instead of apologizing, Freddy knocks his knee against Jacob's and asks, "Can I make it up to you?"

Jacob smiles, wicked and close. "You certainly can," he rumbles.

The cab speeds along, cutting effortlessly through the traffic clogging up the carriageways, until they roll to a stop outside their lodgings in Whitechapel. Freddy pays through the hatch and he and Jacob alight, hands to themselves and walking a respectable distance apart—no more than roommates to the discerning eye.

Their flat is on the first floor and is, admittedly, a little shabbier than what their combined incomes could afford. But its location between a bawdy house and a fight club means no one thinks twice about the sounds that may rise from their rooms. Besides that, it's home. It's cluttered with the furniture Freddy brought over from his old flat in Holloway and the effects Jacob gathered from the train hideout, but the mess is what makes it warm. And when it's quiet on the street, like it is now, the steady trickling of the drinking fountain outside makes it practically pastoral. No carriages, no gang fights—London fades away and it's just them, their little home, and their make-believe creek.

Freddy locks the door behind them and Jacob's on him in an instant, pushing his hat off with one hand and reeling him close with the other. Nose to nose, Jacob parts his lips but withholds a kiss, breathing deep instead while he tugs at the collar of Freddy's frock coat. Freddy rolls his shoulders to help Jacob slip it off, then cups his face and darts in for a kiss, sucking at Jacob's lower lip.

Jacob tilts into him, all heat where before he'd been denying, and steers Freddy toward the bed. He gives him a shove and Freddy falls back on the mattress with a thump, wrinkling the blankets which he'd made up with military precision just hours before. Propped on his elbows, Freddy holds Jacob's gaze as the man shucks off his coat, dropping it to the floor along with his hat.

Freddy knows Jacob's expressions better than he's known anyone's. He's committed them all to memory, and he could record them on a vast chart detailing which expressions lead to which outcomes. In this particular setting—when they're kissing and touching and stripping away their layers—Jacob tends to look at Freddy in one of three ways. There's 'hunger': all desperation and restless fire. It's a gaze that has Freddy shuddering despite himself, ready to come out of his skin as he waits for Jacob to put thought into action. Or there's 'tenderness': too soft and too scrutinizing. Freddy flushes under the attention, unworthy of being cherished so. Finally there's 'mischievous,' which is either cause for delight or cause for concern, and there's no way to know which until it's too late.

Jacob looks mischievous now as he loosens his tie, eyes traveling the length of Freddy's body. Freddy knits his brow, wary, and Jacob approaches, blocking out the light from the window. He stands between Freddy's spread knees, then eases open the drawer of their bedside table.

Jacob drops a heavy book on Freddy's chest. Freddy grunts, then tilts his chin down to look at it. He knows the book by the dull brown cover before his eyes even find the title stamped into the binding: _The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe, With Notices of His Life and Genius._ He's been tricked.

"Jacob, _no_ ," Freddy whines. Jacob ignores this and herds Freddy along with open palms until he sits against the wall.

"You said you'd make it up to me," Jacob replies. He joins him on the mattress and lies diagonally across it, resting his head in Freddy's lap.

"I despise these stories," Freddy reminds him. He holds the book gingerly by its binding like it's something rotting. "You know how much I despise these stories."

Jacob smiles broadly up at him, mock innocent. "And therein lies the fun of making you read them," he quips. "Come on, Freddy. Please?" Freddy sighs. Jacob's already handed him the book and trapped him in place; what's the point of putting up a fight?

"Where did we leave off?" Freddy grumbles, opening the book. Jacob lifts his head to slick his hair into place, then settles back on Freddy's thigh.

"The good part," he says. "Dupin just told that copper he has the letter." Freddy finds their spot on page 270, releases another put-upon sigh, then starts to read aloud.

" _The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless_ —wait, 'minutes'? Did they not think to check whether this poor man was suffering from apoplexy?"

Jacob chuckles but doesn't reply. So Freddy dives back in. When he gets to the first line of dialogue on the next page, Jacob interrupts to say, "Can you do the accents?"

Freddy pauses, trying it out at a whisper, tongue twisting around French (or French-like) pronunciations. "I'd rather not."

"Spoilsport," Jacob murmurs. His eyes are shut and his lips are turned up in a smirk. With one arm bent up over his head, he's practically posed for an oil painting. _Scoundrel in Repose._

It's been more than a year, but Freddy still feels impossibly fortunate to see Jacob like this, to touch him whenever he pleases and have that touch not only welcomed but encouraged, sought out, returned.

Freddy reads on, ignoring a number of uncharitable remarks Dupin makes about the Parisian police and wading boredly through long anecdotes about marble games and maths. He's carding his fingers through Jacob's hair—a little oily and in need of washing, though Freddy doesn't mind—when he reads aloud the real offense.

" _At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter_." He pauses, processing, then: "No. No, this is ludicrous."

"What is? What's happening?" Jacob asks, a step behind.

"Dupin's about to find the titular _purloined letter_  in a bloody rack of letters," Freddy hisses, closing the book over his thumb. "In what world would a team of investigating policemen not look for a stolen letter among other letters? 'Hidden in plain sight' is not something that would dupe even the greenest constable."

Jacob has one eye open when he slyly suggests, "Not even a French one?"

"Especially not a French one!" Freddy snaps. He reopens the book, decides he's not done, and closes it again. "It's insulting enough to pretend that some untrained civilian could outsmart the police—but then to make the case so pitifully easy to solve? I know this is fiction but it is the…acme of absurdity."

Jacob's smiling and mouthing 'acme of absurdity' as he turns onto his side and reaches up to pluck the book from Freddy's hand. "You know, when I proposed we read some detective stories? What I thought would happen was you'd crack all the cases about three pages in and wow me with your stunning sergeant's intellect."

Freddy rubs his eyes. "Perhaps if they included just a teaspoon of believable content." He drops his hands and looks down at Jacob, who's watching him with a renewed smirk.

"Do you want to have sex now?" Jacob asks, plain. Freddy thinks about it, absently stroking Jacob's hair.

"Not particularly."

"Tea?"

Freddy huffs, laughing. "Sure."

Jacob climbs nimbly out of bed to put the kettle on, leaving volume one of _The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe_ on the mattress. He gets halfway around the corner, then turns back to give Freddy a quick peck on the cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter title from Chuck Palahniuk**  
>  "It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace."
> 
>  **Freddy's old address**  
>  According to the funnily-named but infinitely-helpful [Ripper Hunter: Abberline and the Whitechapel Murders](https://books.google.com/books?id=SWgqVCSNwikC), Frederick and Martha's wedding certificate from 1868 lists their address at St. James, Holloway.
> 
>  **Freddy vs. the detective story**  
>  Before he joined the Met, Abberline "[spent most evenings, when he wasn't too tired, reading Penny Dreadfuls which a neighbour would supply him with](http://www.bournemouthecho.co.uk/news/10424058.display/)." I like to think that's where his in-game flair for drama comes from, but as his career proceeds he probably can't stand to see the delicacies of police work misrepresented. ;)


	3. Your Own Light-Hearted Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a [Jack the Ripper hoax letter written in verse](https://books.google.com/books?id=6naKaWROJ0gC&pg=PA22&lpg=PA22&dq=Your+Own+Light-Hearted+Friend&source=bl&ots=6MnIbSNEP5&sig=N4SxqG7eJCdD9Ddk4bmM4FvPd9c&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjHtq7Iy4DQAhWLw1QKHah8DTEQ6AEIRzAK#v=onepage&q=Your%20Own%20Light-Hearted%20Friend&f=false) (excuse the epithet): "I'm not a butcher / I'm not a Yid / Nor yet a foreign skipper / But I'm your own light-hearted friend / Yours truly, Jack the Ripper."  
> 

**1888**

Freddy arrives at Leman Street in the gray dawn. The cab he arrived in makes a wide turn along the empty press barricades then rattles away down the pavement, through the costermongers and tinkerers and flowergirls setting up their carts for the day. Freddy pauses on the footpath, staring up at the five-storey building that headquarters H Division.

He didn't think he'd be back so soon.

Some months ago, his superiors summoned him to work in Scotland Yard's central office. Freddy's plans were to accept his promotion and transfer quietly, but his fellow officers weren't about to let his fourteen years of service go uncelebrated. They dragged him out for dinners and speeches. An assembly of appreciative business owners—civilians—presented him with an engraved hunting watch and a purse of gold.

It was all rather inflated…even if in private, proud moments Freddy could admit he had done excellent work in Whitechapel. In his years serving H Division, crime had dropped dramatically. People in Whitechapel felt safer in its streets, and the pall that had hung over the East End for lifetimes had started to lift, ever so slightly. He'd more than earned his stripes and his promotion, but the transfer was bittersweet, in a way. Still, Freddy knew he was leaving Whitechapel better than he found it.

He takes a deep breath, puffing his cheeks, then blows it out. _So much for that._

He pushes inside the building and finds it bustling, lamps burning bright and the floor full of officers on the move. In his years as inspector-in-charge, he always arrived around this time so that he could meet with the night shift before they left. Usually the building was quiet, with even the most belligerent criminals in the holding pen having finally cooled off.

This morning is different. Mary Ann Nichols has been dead barely 24 hours and already H Division is feeling the pressure, brimming with additional officers and nervous energy. Freddy approaches the desk at front of house, where the assigned constable stares down at the ringing telephone with tired eyes.

"Constable Whitbread," Freddy says in greeting.

The constable stiffens, eyes bulging. "Inspector!" He smooths his hair back and his eyes dart here and there over the surface of the large wooden desk that boxes him in. He fumbles with the telephone, knocking the receiver from the fork then scrambling to lift it to his ear. " _London Metropolitan Police, H Div_ —ahh, they disconnected." He sets the phone back down and looks up at Freddy, flushing.

Freddy gives him what he hopes is an encouraging smile. "Is Doctor Paswan in yet?" Freddy asks, expecting a no.

Whitbread sighs, shoulders slumping. "I don't think she's left since they brought the body in," he replies. Freddy nods, but before he can walk away, Whitbread adds, "It's nice to see you again, sir. Well…"

"I know." The rest—'if only under better circumstances'—doesn't need to be said. "You as well, Constable."

Freddy weaves through the men crowding the ground floor—sergeants giving patrol orders, constables carrying papers to and fro, pairs of officers in serious conversation. Many of them lift their heads as he passes, some murmuring greetings, others murmuring to each other. _Inspector Abberline is here. Did you know the Yard was sending Inspector Abberline?_

As Whitbread suggested, Freddy finds the division physician downstairs in her dead room. She's leaning against the wall, partially obscured by a curling cloud of cigarette smoke as she considers the sheet-covered body on her table.

Freddy clears his throat. "I can't imagine you're very productive after twenty, twenty-two hours on the job."

Paswan ashes her cigarette. "You're one to talk." Even while they're pink and puffy with exhaustion, her dark eyes are intelligent. Aware. She's usually two or three steps ahead of whatever ninny she's forced to converse with, and being that ninny makes Freddy nervous. "Reid mentioned you were coming back to rescue us."

Freddy gives an acquiescing tip of his head. "Scotland Yard thought I might be of some assistance." This makes Paswan laugh darkly, and Freddy elects not to ask why. Instead, he motions to the covered body on the table and says, "Care to walk me through this?"

Paswan steps forward and takes hold of the sheet, blotted with day-old bloodstains. Freddy holds his breath, steeling himself for seeing the corpse of a woman he'd met a time or two, a woman who went by Polly and had been ribald but harmless as she spent her night's earnings at the Frying Pan Pub. But when Paswan draws the sheet back, it's so much graver than seeing an acquaintance slain. Polly's not just been murdered but mutilated, her face cut and cut and cut, like her killer was scratching her from a photograph.

"Estimated time of death is 3:30 a.m. on the 31st of August," Paswan recites. "Her throat was slit twice from left to right. It was after she died that our killer got creative. In addition to these cuts here…" she draws the sheet farther down, over Polly's breasts and down to her pubic bone, and more jagged wounds appear as she goes. "There are several incisions across the abdomen, and more along her right side. All by the same knife, likely about six to eight inches long."

Paswan's saying something about bruises on the face and jaw, the mark of a missing ring—and Freddy should be paying attention, he should, but he's waiting to butt in with his question, mind whirring.

"How was the body identified?" 

"A laundry mark on her petticoats led officers to a brothel, and the women there confirmed Nichols was missing. They summoned Nichols' ex-husband to identify her." She indicates the corpse's mangled face with a vague gesture and adds, "Not that there's much to go off."

Freddy crosses his arms and holds curled fingers to his mouth, trying to curb the shameful bubble of excitement he feels in his chest as he says, "This isn't Mary Ann Nichols."

Paswan blinks. "Beg pardon?"

"This isn't…" Freddy trails off, then grabs the notes from Paswan to flip through them, scanning her tight cursive with squinted eyes. It appears the officers had neglected to pass along information from the investigation that might have led Paswan to the same conclusion, like Polly's date of birth. "I'd met Polly—forties, graying hair, a bit plump. She'd lived the life of an Unfortunate in Whitechapel for many years, mostly on the streets. Whoever this is, she was young and healthy and cared for. This may be what Mr. Nichols remembers from before they dissolved the marriage, but this is not what Polly looks like today."

Freddy glances up from Paswan's notes, chewing on the inside of his cheek. No matter who she was, a woman has been butchered. …But. The extra layer of mistaken, perhaps stolen, identity makes this bigger and more tangled than just a murder case. And Freddy's itching to see what he can turn up.

"I'm meeting with Llewellyn in an hour so he can brief the press on the autopsy," Paswan says. Dr. Henry Llewellyn is one of Paswan's public surrogates, assigned by Scotland Yard to cover up the fact that Freddy had hired a woman—an Indian woman, no less—to run the morgue at H Division. Paswan's always shrugged it off, saying she doesn't like 'adjective-jerkers' anyhow, but Freddy imagines if she had her way she'd see her name in the papers. Putting her on the payroll took enough persuasion and compromise, however—getting their higher-ups to publicly acknowledge her employment would be an impossible fight, even if every London reporter worth their salt already knew Paswan was H Division's surgeon. "Should he inform the scribblers that we're still searching for the victim's identity?" she asks.

Freddy considers it. "No. Keep them spreading Mary Ann Nichols' name in the papers. If anyone's seen her around since her supposed murder, they might come forward with information we can use. Hell, maybe Polly herself will stop by and explain how this woman ended up with her petticoats."

Paswan holds her hand out for her notes, and Freddy passes them over. "An interesting strategy, Abberline." She turns her back on him and leans over the desk on the wall, scratching something in her notes. Before he can take his leave, she glances over her shoulder and adds, "It is good to have you back."

Freddy mounts the stairs and walks out on the ground floor landing. There's no murmuring this time, no 'good mornings.' Silence ripples outward from the first officers who spot him, and Freddy falters as all the men turn toward him, expectant. They gaze at Freddy like he's the solution their problems. And Freddy hopes desperately that he can provide. He clears his throat.

"I'll need to have a look at the logbook and any notes gathered during the inquest so far. Every paper, every document, every report, every telegram. Do I have an office?"

Whitbread pipes up from the far corner of the room. "Your old office is still open, sir."

Freddy nods. "See to it that the detectives are sent as they arrive. We'll catch this killer, gentlemen. You have my word."

Freddy finds his office just as he left it: furnished but bare save for some of the division's books and files still stored there. He retrieves the crank for the grandfather clock from his desk and winds it, setting the time—almost 7:30 a.m.—then goes to work.

He reads the crime scene documentation, the testimonies, the logbook—and he jots down anything he finds noteworthy. Polly's vanished ring. The recent uptick in missing persons. The gaps between statements from people who know Polly personally and statements from people who claim they had seen the victim at some point during the night of her murder.

He's in the middle of pinning papers to the framed map on the wall when the first detective arrives. He raps his knuckles on the doorframe and Freddy motions for him to enter.

"DS Godley, good morning."

"It's been awhile, Inspector," Godley replies, as sunny as the flower he wears through his lapel. "I understand you want to be briefed on anything not found in our files; however, our first witness of the day has arrived. I wondered if you might like to sit in on the interview."

The witness is a Miss Vertie Ross who is cinched into a polonaise that's much brighter and cleaner than the old skirt she wears underneath. She nervously taps the pads of her fingers on the table that separates her from her interviewers, answering questions about the victim's physical appearance to confirm she saw the right person.

Godley is writing notes, eyes on the paper, as he asks Vertie, "You say you saw Mrs. Nichols the night of 31st August. Where were you?"

"On Buxton Street, near Brick Lane," she says, soft. "'Round 'alf-two."

"Half-two?" Godley repeats. He looks up, eyes narrowed. "What were you doing?"

Vertie glances sideways, tellingly. "I was on a stroll."

"A stroll. At half-two in East London?" Godley presses. "Are you quite sure?"

Vertie casts Freddy, who has been silent so far, a desperate look. Freddy holds up a hand. "Let her provide her statement, Sergeant Godley," he advises gently. H Division has quite enough work on its hands already—booking and detaining prostitutes isn't where their focus should lie.

Godley pivots and says, "You saw Mrs. Nichols on Buxton Street. What was she doing?"

"Arguing wiv some geezer." Godley sits forward, intrigued. Freddy feels less so. He's seen the witness testimonies so far, and there are far more lies and blatant bids for attention as there are useful statements.

"Were they shouting?" Godley asks.

"No. But I could tell. Gestures."

Godley adds that to his notes— _gestures indicating verbal altercation_. "Did you hear anything that was said?"

Vertie shakes her head, looking at the floor. "I planned to step in if it got violent, right, but it didn't. They stomped off after a spell. The man passed right by me, though, and I got a good look at 'im."

"Describe his appearance, please?" Vertie nods.

"Middle age. Average 'eight. Broad fellow—and dark, wiv a beard. Had a big scar through 'is eyebrow," she says, touching the arch of her right eyebrow. "Right 'ere."

The bubble of elation Freddy was feeling before—of excitement over a tricky case—hardens like glass in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He's able to hold out hope that this is a coincidence, that Vertie could be describing any number of Whitechapel roughs or brawlers, but then Godley asks about the man's clothes.

"Smart, but not too smart. Dark overcoat. Oh, and an odd sort of glove on this 'and." She wiggles the fingers of her left hand, then drops it beneath the table as she catches sight of her own dirty fingernails. "Almost like a—what's that called? Like a gauntlet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Freddy's career (and going-away party)**  
>  Police records, significant career dates, and heaps of glowing praise found in _[The Complete History of Jack the Ripper.](https://books.google.com/books?id=vNzABAAAQBAJ&pg=PT62#v=onepage&q&f=false)_ Freddy would have spent much of his H Division inspector years at one of the smaller Whitechapel stations (on Commercial Street) instead of at the Leman Street headquarters, but I turned that fact up after I wrote this and was too lazy to go back and change things. 
> 
> **Officer names**  
>  Names of lower-ranking officers borrowed from [this thread](http://forum.casebook.org/showthread.php?t=2870&page=7) of people debating whether the man tentatively identified as Abberline in group photos of police was actually him. Higher-ranking officers came from _[The Complete Jack The Ripper A-Z](https://books.google.com/books?id=8uZ8CwAAQBAJ)_ , which has a list of inspectors and sergeants that reported to Abberline during the case: "The Times reported on 12 November 1888 that Detective Inspectors Moore, Reid and Nairn, with Sergeants Thick, Godley, McCarthy and Pearce, had been working constantly on the case under Abberline's direction."
> 
>  **Crime details**  
>  One of the things that threw me about the DLC was how Freddy told Evie that he knew the first victim wasn't actually Mary Ann Nichols—"The woman who died here is not the woman I met a few times at the Frying Pan Pub." The same can be assumed of the other victims: that they were Assassins posing as sex workers, and that their 'real' names and identities never went down in history. But the game never supplied a reason for how these women were being misidentified over and over. I added the detail about mutilations because it fits Jack's MO (erasing details about the Brotherhood), is actually present on some of the later victims, and would help make sense of why people ID them incorrectly (there's nothing to go on but their clothes, where they were killed, etc).


	4. You Will Soon Hear of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the ['Dear Boss' letter:](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dear_Boss_letter) "You will soon hear of me with my funny little games."
> 
>  **A note about Jack:** I struggle with Ubisoft's decision to link Jack's violence to mental illness. I get why they did it. There's unique allure to the 'senseless killing by unhinged madman' narrative, which is why we see it so much despite the fact that the links between mental illness and violent behavior [aren't actually that strong](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1525086/). I considered scrapping canon for something closer to reality: Jack's behavior being motivated by socio-demographic and socio-economic factors. In the end, I realized that wasn't a way to reshape the story without preserving some sort of stigma, so I kept the canon line. 
> 
> And with that…meet Jack the Lad.

**1871**

Jacob dreams of fire.

He's lying crookedly on the sofa, half-on and half-off, legs spread wide and sweat gathering at the small of his back. Freddy's on the floor between Jacob's knees, watching Jacob with something akin to awe as his fingers curl against that _spot_ and Jacob shakes all over, scrabbles at Freddy's wrist to keep him from drawing back. The heat rising from Jacob's skin meets the heat from the fireplace, flames stoked far too high, and he feels dizzy—but not dizzy enough to tell Freddy to stop. He'd rather faint than stop.

It's a good dream, until it's not. The fire spills over the grate and crosses the floor, climbs the walls. Jacob looks up and finds a wild-eyed Pearl Attaway admiring a fleet of burning omnibuses, then looks down and finds Maxwell Roth gurgling through one last laugh. Bonds forged and bonds broken in flame; allies Jacob should have seen through from the start.

Jacob opens his eyes and the dreamscape bleeds away. He's not in Millner's storage yard or in the Alhambra—he's in bed. The ceiling is dark above him and Freddy's fast asleep at his side, one leg hooked around Jacob's.

He takes a deep, relieved breath…and smells smoke.

He's out of bed in an instant, bounding around the corner. There's a small blaze on the floor in the sitting room, and behind it kneels Jack the Lad, pale hair and skin made white in the glow of the flames. He doesn't see Jacob at first, eyes fixed on the fire. He only notices him there when Jacob yells for Freddy.

Jack leaps to his feet and bolts. Meanwhile, Jacob goes for the rug. He yanks it toward the fire, and the tea table comes rattling along with it. Two, three tugs and it's close enough to smother the blaze. He rushes toward the kitchen for a pot.

Jack, meanwhile, has started to scream—short, repeating shrieks sharp enough to cut. He dashes barefoot around the flat, his cries echoing off every wall.

"Get Jack!" Jacob shouts at Freddy, who came skidding into the room then froze, shocked. Jacob's fighting with the multiple locks they've installed on their door. There's smoke pouring out from under the rug—too much for the fire to be properly dead. "I'm fetching water!"

He's down the stairs and outside in seconds, leg jumping as he waits for the pot to fill in the fountain. Jack's still screaming upstairs, now accompanied by Freddy's shouts and the occasional loud crash. The stockpot's halfway full when Jacob decides he can't wait any longer. He scoops it up and runs back up to the flat, dousing the fire. It sizzles and spits gray smoke.

"What on _earth_ …"

Jacob whirls to find their landlady in the doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown and blinking dumbfoundedly.

"Mrs. Sinnett! It's nothing," Jacob lies, pasting on his winningest smile. He hears a muffled scream from the next room and raises his voice to drown it out. "Just a problem with our little lodger! Knocked over a lamp; gave himself quite a scare." He crowds Mrs. Sinnett back out into the hallway, using the empty stockpot to fend her off. "So sorry to wake you. Truly. We can assess any damages at a more decent hour. Take care."

He snaps the door shut and leans against it, letting out a heavy sigh before going to find his boys.

On the other side of the wall, Freddy's got Jack trapped against him—one hand over his mouth, one arm tight around his middle as the lad kicks and waves his arms in his struggle to get free.

"Jack," Jacob says softly. He reaches out and Jack takes a wild swing at him, releasing another scream muted by Freddy's palm. "Jack, please relax. You needn't be frightened; you're not in trouble." Jacob glances up at Freddy, who looks like he very much disagrees with that statement. Jack wilts a little, but his eyes still spark behind his mop of blond hair. "You're not in trouble," Jacob repeats. "But we'd like it very much if you wouldn't scream anymore. Do you understand?"

Jack stills for a moment, little gears turning. Then he nods. Jacob nods in turn at Freddy, who carefully releases his hold on the lad. His hands hover near Jack's shoulders for a moment, in case he needs to seize him again.

"You can't start fires, Jack," Jacob explains, crouched low to look the lad in the eye. Freddy walks off and starts opening windows, airing out the flat. "It could hurt you, and us."

"I didn't mean to," Jack says. Not small or ashamed, just factual. _He didn't mean to._

Jacob glances back at Freddy who looks…well, 'skeptical' doesn't seem quite powerful enough a word. Freddy shakes his head and stalks off. When he passes again, it's on the way to the door with a bucket and a scrub brush. To Jack, Jacob asks, "Didn't mean to what? To hurt us?"

Jack looks away. Jacob reaches forward and lays a hand on Jack's thin arm, which makes the boy jolt. "Jack, it's our job to keep you safe. But for that to work, we need to lay low. Do you know what that means?" Jack doesn't respond. "We don't want to attract attention. Fires and shouting—those things bring curious people to our door. We don't want that."

Leave it to Jacob Frye to take a good deed—a truly good deed, one that doesn't need spinning to sound like one—and see it spectacularly fall apart. He may have…miscalculated with the lad. Not that he's about to admit it.

"Come, Jack. Back to bed." Jacob stands and offers Jack a hand. The lad reaches up and lays his little palm in Jacob's. Jacob leads him back his cot, asks, "Do you want a story? Or a song?" Jack shakes his head, looking at the ceiling instead of at Jacob, allowing himself to be tucked in.

When he's sure Jack is comfortable, Jacob joins Freddy in the next room. He finds him kneeling where Jack was, picking through the scorched papers and clothing Jack had used for kindling and piling them in the bin. Freddy's fingers pause over a book lying open on its back, all its pages singed down to half their size. He flips the book shut and Jacob recognizes the cover—leather binding, marbled green and gold. It's Freddy's journal, which he fills with press clippings from cases he's worked, then writes down comments in his copperplate handwriting.

He drops it in the bin.

"Freddy."

Freddy pauses, hands opening and closing, before looking up at Jacob.

"Is this the last straw?" he asks softly, gesturing at the singed circle on the floorboards. He's whispering because as much as Freddy wants Jack out of their hideaway-turned-home, he'd never say it in front of him. "Or do we wait until we catch him drowning one of the neighborhood cats?"

"Drowning a…don't be ridiculous," Jacob whispers. He leans back to check that Jack's still in his cot. He's motionless, eyes shut, blankets drawn up all the way to his chin. "Kids start fires! It's curious, Freddy, not devious." He kneels down, and Freddy shoves the scrub brush and bucket in his direction.

"He is _not well_ , Jacob," Freddy insists, over-enunciating in the way he does when he's saying something he's practiced saying before. "He's a broken boy, and making excuses for his behavior won't fix him."

Jacob can't fight him on this, not really. It's been bad from day one, when Jacob entered the flat with little Jack the Lad peeking around his middle. First it was the bedwetting and the nightmares. Then the stealing—every shiny or potentially valuable thing, whether it was left in the open or locked up, started vanishing. Jack was perfectly unremorseful when they found his stash and confronted him about it. And now, he's starting fires.

"'Broken,'" Jacob repeats. He scrubs circles on the floor, blackening the brush in seconds. "You talk about him like he's something I can return to the shop."

Freddy stands and takes the bin back to the corner where they usually keep it. When he returns, he murmurs, "Not…not to the shop."

Jacob's scrubbing slows, then stops. He looks up at Freddy. "What, do you want me to return him to Lambeth?" Freddy shrugs and Jacob's stomach plummets. He gestures fiercely at Freddy with the brush, some ash-black water flying off the tip, and snaps, "Never. Don't even suggest that."

Jacob goes back to scrubbing, with more vigor now, and Freddy falls silent, shifting his weight back and forth from one stockinged foot to the other.

This isn't the first time they've made this circuit. They tried sending Jack to Clara, who manages safe houses for urchins with the Rooks' financial backing. But she won't have Jack—says he's a menace and that he torments the other children. Jacob has refused Freddy's suggestions of placing Jack in a traditional orphanage or a workhouse and, now, an asylum. And so Jack the Lad stays in Freddy and Jacob's flat, splintering their peace.

Once all the ash is gone from the floor, leaving burn marks in its place, Jacob goes to one of the open windows and dumps the water. Freddy takes the brush and bucket from him to put them back in their cupboard, then he joins Jacob back at the window, looking out at the lifeless street below.

"Jacob, I understand that you feel you're at fault for what happened to Jack and his mother," Freddy says, because even if they've scarcely touched in weeks, Freddy's finger is always on Jacob's pulse. "But you are not. You cannot look after all of London, and you cannot undo what is done by caring for this boy."

'Undo,' perhaps not. But Jacob can and will do all he can to rectify what happened to Jack's family. Which brings to mind a letter from Evie—and a discussion he's been putting off.

Jacob looks around at Freddy, at the wrinkled day shirt he went to bed in, at his mussed hair. Every night, all Freddy's work getting his cowlicks to lie flat is undone within minutes of his head hitting his pillow. Jacob reaches over to push one down, lips twitching into a smile as it pops back up.

"There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about," Jacob says.

They shut the windows, and Freddy leads him to their bed. Jacob lights a candle with the very matches Jack used in his experiment half an hour before, recovered from where he'd left them on the floor. They sit facing each other, legs criss-crossed on the mattress and knees together. Jacob takes Freddy's hands, which makes Freddy tilt his head—curious, concerned.

"Evie wants me to travel to India." Jacob pauses, waiting for a reaction. Freddy doesn't have one. "We agree that Jack needs structure and discipline. The Brotherhood there is enormous compared to here in Britain, and their Mentors and tutors will help put Jack on the right path. I've selected a few Rooks to come as well—good fighters well-suited to this life, should they choose to join after their training."

Jacob stops again, searching Freddy's eyes, pupils stretched in the shadows. "How long will you be gone?" Freddy asks.

"A year, maybe longer." Finally, a reaction: Freddy stiffens, sucking in a breath. Jacob rubs Freddy's fingers where they're curled in his. "Will you come with us?"

Freddy doesn't respond. He looks away from Jacob and fixes his eyes on a point past his head.

"You can think on it, but…imagine, Freddy. _India_. We could secure our own lodgings outside the city and raise chickens and…and when the others are in training we can cook with aphrodisiacs and shag in the backyard under the sun. Oh, and travel! Evie says there are these mad temples—"

Freddy murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, 'I can't.'

Jacob stops short, certain he misheard him. "Pardon?"

"I _can't_ ," Freddy says, a helpless exhale. "Jacob, I can't put my life on hold for a year to run East."

Jacob knits his brows. "You wouldn't be putting your life 'on hold'; you'd be living," he replies, slow. "With me and Jack and the others."

Freddy draws back, slipping his hands out of Jacob's. "I can't," he repeats.

"Why not?"

"I have a…a _life_ here, Jacob," Freddy sputters. "A post as a police officer and a sworn duty not to neglect it. And how would I explain this to Scotland Yard besides? They know I don't have enough income to travel and lounge for a year, even if I take my pension." Freddy levers himself backward, so he's not touching Jacob. He turns and sits at the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor. "Already we struggle to protect this secret; I can't give them a reason to ask questions. We'll be found out."

"We won't be found out," Jacob says. He's said it a hundred times. "And it would take an army to take the two of us down. Do you really think we're worth the effort?"

Freddy shakes his head. Jacob knows it's another 'I can't,' not a reply to his question. They sit in silence—Freddy's eyes on the floor, Jacob's eyes on Freddy. "I already bought you a ticket," Jacob admits after a while, quiet. That's how certain he'd been that Freddy would say yes.

Freddy huffs, and his next sentence goes shaky about halfway through. "I suppose that means it's too late for me to beg you not to leave me." He stands up and walks over to their wardrobe, gently opening the squeaky door.

"Are you going somewhere?"

Jacob can see Freddy's fingers flex on the edge of the door. "To the station."

"It's four in the morning, Freddy," Jacob says. In other circumstances, he'd laugh. There goes his little policeman to pursue justice in the middle of the night. "Come back to bed."

Freddy shuts the wardrobe, clothes draped over one arm. He meets Jacob's gaze just for a second, and—well, it's hard to be certain in the feeble light from the candle, but Jacob thinks his eyes look wet. "Just let me be, Jacob."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Abberline's diary**  
>  I have a screenshot of a page from his diary, but hell if I can remember the book I took it from. [Here it is](http://i.imgur.com/1fytZot.png), anyway.


	5. Some Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for the smut-skippers among you: the whole middle of this chapter is pretty gooey.

**1871**

It's the day before Jacob and his initiates leave for India, a month-long journey that will take Jacob a world away and leave Freddy alone with his thoughts. So perhaps Freddy shouldn't feel a little rush of relief when he comes home in the evening and finds the flat empty.

The weeks since Jacob told him he'd be leaving have been…strained. Both men seem to think they're the one being tossed aside, and to an extent they're both right. Jacob may be the one traveling, but Freddy's the one refusing to be moved. He's not certain if they're lovers still, or if they're just staying together in the flat for convenience. Every conversation is reserved and clipped, and every night they go to sleep with their backs to each other.

There's been some distance ever since Jack moved in, of course, but even if they didn't want to risk too much affection in front of the boy, they were still a team. They had to be, to manage Jack's behavior. And that's where this spurge takes its root, isn't it?

When Freddy told Jacob he couldn't leave his job for a year in India—that was only a half truth. It was the nobler of his reasons and the only one he'd be willing to speak aloud. His first and biggest issue is Jack. He couldn't fathom living with the lad for another week, much less for a year abroad. Jack's illness is making Freddy mad in turn, and his presence has turned Freddy and Jacob's little sanctuary into a den of frustration and duress.

A better man would feel more pity for the lad. But Freddy…he feels like he's competing with Jack for Jacob's affection. It's shameful and ridiculous—possessing such a petty reaction makes Freddy's stomach churn. But every time Jacob refuses a solution that would free them from Jack, every time Jacob looks at Freddy with betrayal for suggesting there _is_ a solution other than caring for Jack in perpetuity…the feeling is there again. A mobius strip of pain and jealousy, then embarrassment at that pain and jealousy—Freddy is trapped in a never-ending circuit.

The only way to be rid of Jack is to be rid of Jacob, and that doesn't feel like a victory at all.

Freddy fetches some leftover turnip soup from the icebox and puts it on the stove to reheat. He empties the drip pan before he forgets, then comes back to make toast. He settles in with his meal and tries to enjoy the silence, even if he knows this will be his lonely lot every night for the foreseeable future.

Jacob comes home an hour later, beating the setting sun by a minute or two. It follows him inside, flooding the flat with rosy light as he opens the door. Freddy looks up from his book and, in lieu of a greeting, blurts his first thought: "Where's Jack?"

Jacob smiles mildly. "I conned Clara into taking him for one night," he says. Jacob hooks his hat and cloak on the coat rack in the corner. "I thought we could use some time."

Freddy clears his throat and sets his book aside. "For?" Jacob cocks his head.

"Well, I could finish packing my trunk. Or we could go over the arrangement for paying my half of the rent while I'm gone." He walks over, closer and closer until Freddy has to crane his neck to hold his gaze. "But I can think of better ways to spend our evening. What say you?"

Freddy blows out a shaky little sigh. "I thought you might be finished with me," he admits. He can feel himself flushing as he says it—at the admission or at the acknowledgment that Jacob wants him, he's not sure which.

"Not quite," Jacob murmurs, reaching forward to hook his fingers beneath Freddy's chin. "Are you finished with me?"

"No." Freddy lifts Jacob's fingers from his jaw to his lips, kissing them. "No."

Jacob smiles—not quite cocksure, not quite sweet. He holds out his other hand, palm up, and Freddy takes it as he stands. Jacob maneuvers Freddy by his wrists, putting Freddy's hands where he wants them: on his neck, thumbs nudging his jaw. Freddy takes his cue and pulls Jacob in, laying a slow kiss on his lips, then resting a beat before the next. A pause; a kiss. Another pause; another kiss. Jacob dabs the tip of his tongue on Freddy's lower lip like he might taste his dinner, then surges in like a man starved. And with their weeks of celibacy, maybe he is that—starved.

Jacob draws back for a breath, and he is allowed only half a one before Freddy grabs him by the shirt collar and pulls him back in, nipping at his lips, seeking Jacob's tongue with his. Freddy gets his fingers in Jacob's hair, nails tracing his scalp down to the nape of his neck. Jacob shivers and groans, shoving his hips against Freddy's. Starved, indeed.

Freddy breaks the kiss and, voice ragged, suggests, "Sofa?"

"Bed," is Jacob's counter-offer, and he snaps up one of Freddy's hands to lead him there.

In a minute, Freddy's on his back and trapped between Jacob's knees, breath hitching in time to the lazy roll of Jacob's hips. Jacob's unbuttoning his vest and his shirt, slipping off his tie, and Freddy's hands wander, fingertips exploring Jacob's exposed angles and planes, made no less marvelous by familiarity.

He's tracing the thin line of hair that connects Jacob's chest to his groin when the man rumbles, "That tickles."

Freddy stops, fingers spread over where the hair parts around Jacob's navel. "Tickles good or tickles bad?"

Jacob smiles, slipping out of his shirt and vest and tossing them aside. "Good. It's good." Freddy sits up for another kiss and receives it—open mouthed, rich, slow. Freddy breathes loudly against Jacob's cheek, committing the smell to memory. Gunsmoke and castile soap.

Jacob slips off Freddy's bracers—left shoulder, then right—then untucks his shirt. Jacob knees backward on the mattress, crouching low, and Freddy lets out a shuddering breath, gripped by the anticipation of Jacob's touch. That breath turns to a groan as Jacob noses at Freddy's groin, then mouths along the line of his cock. "Yes?" Jacob breathes.

" _Yes_ ," Freddy rasps back. "Yes—get a move on." Jacob chuckles, and the sound of it is sinful. He hooks his fingers in Freddy's waistband and draws his trousers down. Freddy lifts his hips to help him along, but Jacob stops short, with just the head of Freddy's cock nudging past his waistband. Jacob bends low and laps at it once, twice—then he uses thumb and forefinger to ease back Freddy's foreskin so he can curl the tip of his tongue along the slit. Freddy shivers—he can't help it—and once Jacob finally sees fit to seal his lips over Freddy's cock and suck, Freddy lets loose a pitiful moan.

But as soon as he's started, he's pulling off. "Do you like this?" Jacob asks, wet breath feathering over the sensitive head of Freddy's prick. Jacob approaches this task like he approaches so many others: with far too much talking.

"Jacob, please," Freddy pleads, reclining on his elbows.

Jacob's lips brush Freddy's cock as he purrs, "Is that a yes or a no?"

Freddy snaps his head up to deliver a withering glare. " _Jacob_."

Jacob grins wickedly and tucks his hair behind his ears before dipping down to go to work. His lips fit perfectly over Freddy's cock, hot and soft. His calloused fist fits likewise around Freddy's shaft, moving steadily up and down. Freddy's breaths are deep and going deeper, each exhale a shaky sigh. And the flex and twist of Jacob's tongue on the bottom of his cock has Freddy's eyes rolling back, lids shutting against his will when the view of Jacob sucking him off is, as ever, an unbelievable one.

Freddy manages to shift and bend his knee just enough so his shin meets Jacob's groin. Jacob grinds against him needily, shamelessly. He pulls off Freddy's cock, gasping for air and rocking his hips harder.

"I want to kiss you," Freddy murmurs. He doesn't recall having that thought—it just comes out of his mouth, unbidden.

Jacob smirks up at him, lips swollen and pupils stretched wide. "Even with my mouth so recently defiled?"

Freddy finds it in himself to laugh dryly. "Even so."

Jacob smiles wider yet, then brushes his lips against the base of Freddy's cock, then the jut of his hip bone, then up and up until he holds himself scant inches away from Freddy's waiting mouth. Freddy snakes a hand up and around the nape of Jacob's neck, pulling him down to sip at his lips, and Jacob sighs against his cheek. Freddy nudges him onto his side, and Jacob curls a leg over Freddy's middle, the better to rut against him.

They wiggle out of the rest of their clothes so they can rock together, bodies hot with arousal and slick with sweat. Certain moralists of the age may question how two men might fit together in congress, but Jacob and Freddy have always matched like this—cocks slotting together, fingers tangled in each other's hair, Jacob's head tipped back and Freddy's lips at his throat. They may be a mismatch on paper—the police officer and the gang leader, the enforcer and the assassin—but in bed they're a perfect pair.

Freddy kisses along Jacob's jaw and up to his ear, then pauses to ask, "Do you think— _ahh_ —do you think we're getting a little sidetracked?" He asks because by now one of them usually has three fingers pressing past the other's rim. But tonight, it looks like they're going to finish like this—frantically grinding against each other, nails biting into each other's backs.

"Maybe," Jacob admits, voice raspy. He's past the point of saucy grins and teasing words; color on his cheeks and sweat on his temples and eyes gone all soft. Jacob shifts between smug and sentimental faster than anyone Freddy's ever known, but over the years he's acclimated to the peculiar continuum of Jacob's affection. And he's about to lose that. And that fills him with dread.

Jacob's asking, "Do you want me to stop?" and Freddy's shaking his head. He can't slow down. He can't give himself another second to think. "No?"

"Keep going," he urges. And Jacob does—rolling his hips, his prick rubbing against Freddy's, then along the divot where hip meets thigh. Jacob keeps thrusting and thrusting and Freddy does the same, forcing grunts and moans and gasps from them both.

Jacob tips Freddy onto his back once more. He nudges Freddy's thighs farther apart so he can settle fully between them, and Freddy bends his knees to hold him there. He rolls his hips restlessly as Jacob pauses to reach for the bedside table and the slick they keep there. He coats his palm, slopping on the table in haste, then reaches down to wrap his wet fingers around Freddy's cock. Jacob works his fist ruthlessly fast, his hips pumping even faster. The sensation is dizzying, but it's the limited view he has of Jacob's desperately snapping hips, the feeling of Jacob panting raggedly against his neck that's most responsible for bringing Freddy off. He comes with a cry—louder than his usual, but fit for the occasion.

Sated, Freddy's body goes slack and heavy. Jacob keeps bucking against him, and Freddy's hands knead at his arms and shoulders, his back and his arse. Jacob blurts a warning, but only gets it partway out before Freddy turns his head and catches his lips in a rough kiss. Jacob whines in the back of his throat and shoots, shuddering from head to toe and digging his nails hard enough into Freddy's shoulders to bruise.

They recover their breath, go through the motions of clean up. It's too early for sleep but they crawl under the covers anyway, lying face-to-face with tangled legs, not quite avoiding the wet spot. Jacob's eyes have fallen shut, and Freddy examines him closely—the softness of his eyelashes, the flush on his cheeks, the bow of his lips. He wants to memorize every detail. He needs to.

"What will you miss most about London?" Freddy murmurs. Past its mucky streets and smoggy skies, the city does have its charms. Freddy feels trapped by it, usually, but he knows that London is Jacob's first love.

"Hmm." Jacob's lips quirk, and he opens his eyes. "I'll miss this crooked nose," he says, reaching forward to tap his index finger on the tip of Freddy's nose. Freddy scoffs, and it comes out sounding more dejected than he meant it to. "And this dimpled chin. I'll miss these, my favorite whiskers, and…" Jacob props himself up and touches a spot low on Freddy's back. "I'll miss this mole right here that I don't think you know about."

"What mole?"

"Right here," Jacob repeats, on the edge of a laugh. "Right here, my finger's on it."

Freddy twists and contorts and tries to see the spot Jacob's touching, but he can't. Jacob chuckles and when Freddy slumps back into his pillow, he suggests he finds it in a looking glass sometime. They fall silent again, and Freddy looks away as Jacob's eyes travel his face.

"Will you miss me, Freddy Abberline?" Jacob asks softly. He can't mean it to, but the question is like a punch in the gut.

"I already miss you," Freddy admits. He can hardly enjoy these moments, caught up as he is with thinking ahead to tomorrow and next week and next month. Jacob scoots in and leans his forehead against Freddy's, touching their noses together. He smooths his hand over Freddy's hair, and Freddy takes deep, steadying breaths.

—

The next day, they stand under the grand arches of St. Pancras—Freddy, Jacob, and Jacob's little team of Rooks, of which Jack is by far the youngest. Freddy has memorized the details of Jacob's journey so that he might imagine him against the right backdrop on any given day or night. First a train to Dover. Then a ferry across the Channel to Calais. They'll board another train that takes them to Marseille, then they'll board a steamer that takes them all the way to Calicut.

In a month, Jacob and Freddy will be farther apart than they have been since the day they met. No, scratch that. They'll be that far apart in an hour or two, and the fissure will only grow larger with each passing day.

Freddy's mind wanders. He listens to the chatter of passerby, the squeaking wheels of trolley carts, the shrill whistle from the train on the platform. He only notices Jacob's speaking to him when he's partway through his sentence.

"…Evie's address. I've never been one for letters but…I'll write as often as I'm able. All right?"

Freddy nods tightly, looking anywhere but at Jacob's face. Around them, men and women hold hands and kiss their goodbyes. And here stand Jacob and Freddy, separated by two feet and the risk of being caught in a capital offense.

Freddy wants to say, _Tell me I have nothing to worry about._ He wants to make Jacob swear that when he comes back, all will be as it was. That they'll have their little flat and their mornings spent in bed and their evenings reading by the fire. But it feels selfish. It feels impossible. Jacob promises to write, and Freddy will write back, but they're only pretending at a relationship. This is a separation, and ink and paper make a flimsy bridge.

"Freddy?" Freddy moves his gaze from the Rooks who walk back and forth on the platform, stretching their legs while they're able, to Jacob, who's looking at him with a furrow between his brows. The train's whistle splits the air again and a conductor calls that there are just two minutes until departure. Just two bloody minutes, and here Freddy's been drifting.

Jacob shoos the children onto the train, then turns to reel Freddy in for a hug. He squeezes hard enough to crack Freddy's ribs, but Freddy's not sure that's what's making him short of breath.

"I love you," Freddy says, hushed. "More than I can…more than…" He gives up and trails off, tucks his face against Jacob's shoulder.

"I love you too," Jacob whispers. He sways slightly, rocking them both. "Always. Always."

The platform is empty of everyone but them and the conductors, who snapping doors shut all along the train cars. Jacob breaks their embrace, looking at Freddy like he needs more time. "I have to go," he murmurs, and Freddy nods.

He considers that ticket Jacob bought for him. Does he still have it, or did he recruit another Rook so that he got his money's worth? In this moment, Freddy wants nothing more than to follow him—to hop aboard that train and start a great adventure. But he can't. He can't.

"Goodbye, Jacob," Freddy croaks, feeling a certain finality in the statement and despising it, wishing he could take it back the moment it leaves his lips.

"Goodbye." Jacob smirks and tugs on the edge of Freddy's beard and Freddy smiles back, only because that must be what Jacob wants. Jacob walks backward to his door, disappearing up the steps just a split-second before the train blows its whistle once more and starts to move with shrieking wheels and a great puff of steam.

Freddy watches the train go for as long as he can bear it, then turns back to find his way out of St. Pancras. He spots the same Rooks that brought them there waiting on the road, and Freddy approaches and gives them the Whitechapel address. He climbs into the carriage—a growler, helpful for hauling trunks and multiple passengers but arguably too large for a single man to take across town. But inside, Freddy can perfectly picture Jacob sitting across from him, smiling and frowning in turn as he watches the streets of London pass by for the last time in a long time.

Out of sight, Freddy gives in. He covers his mouth with his hand to muffle the sound and lets himself cry. It's foolish, so foolish, but he thinks he can feel the distance growing between them as his carriage rolls along Farringdon Road. Like a length of twine spooling out and out and out until it pulls taut and then, inevitably, snaps.


	6. Proper Red Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the ['Dear Boss' letter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dear_Boss_letter): "I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can't use it."

**1888**

Freddy opens his door to a nervous-looking constable who's been knocking insistently and incessantly for half a minute. The sun's not yet up, and Freddy's half-in, half-out of his day clothes. He'd grouch at the constable for the intrusion, but there can be only one reason he's here.

"Another body, Inspector," the constable announces, out-of-breath. "Tower Hamlets Cemetery, found less than half an hour ago."

Foolish of Freddy to think he might be able to go home and get some rest, maybe take Saturday morning to refresh. He leaves the young officer at the door and goes to find his appointments.

"Did you take a cab here?" he calls as he pulls on his bracers.

"No, sir. Leman Street rang us at B Division and I walked…well, ran here from the station house."

Freddy recalls the boy's collar number—of course. No sense in sending someone from Whitechapel all the way to Pimlico.

"Get me a hansom, will you?" Freddy says, locking eyes with the constable over his shoulder. He needs his revolver and holster…his vest and jacket and tie…what else? He's glad he'll have the cab ride to gather his wits. "I'll be outside in a few minutes."

Just two days previous, they'd finally released not-Polly from their dead room. She was put in a sturdy wooden coffin and laid to rest in an unmarked grave in Little Ilford. They didn't bury her because they'd made any meaningful progress on the case. No, not-Polly's body had begun to putrefy, and the secrets Paswan could wring from it about her identity (or the identity of her killer) were decaying with it. Freddy wanted to get her a headstone, but he wasn't sure if being laid to rest under the wrong name was more dignified.

And now, another body. But people died in Whitechapel every day. This may not have to do with Freddy's case—Freddy's killer—at all.

—

"This is your killer, Abberline," Paswan says. She's crouching in front of the corpse, gingerly pulling the handkerchief at the victim's neck down to get a better look at her sliced-open throat, cut so deeply she's practically been beheaded. Paswan scratches something on her notepad and clarifies, "That's an initial assessment."

Freddy stands next to the body, fingers curled over his mouth and against his nostrils to stymie the metallic smell of blood, thick all around them. Freddy has seen his share of crime scenes, but this… _Christ_. The victim is on her back, knees bent and turned outward, skirts hiked up—a vile imitation of pleasure. She's been ferociously disemboweled, left bizarrely wreathed by her own intestines, torn out and cast aside by this…monster.

 _By Jacob_ , whispers the insidious instinct he's been smothering from day one of this investigation. _By Jacob. By Jacob. By Jacob_.

"Sir." That's Sergeant McCarthy, just arrived and looking as worn out as Freddy feels.

He nods to the sergeant and starts rattling off instructions. "Cordon off the area. Do not let anyone leave—interviews start now. We need to find out who this woman was. Make immediate enquiry at nearby common lodging houses. See if anyone entered this morning with blood on their hands or clothes, or under any suspicious circumstances." He scans the constables grouped behind McCarthy, some averting their eyes from the eviscerated corpse on the ground, others apparently unable to look away from it. "Are these all your men?"

McCarthy furrows his brow. "Yes, Inspector. Three are yet on patrol; one is posted as a reserve at the station."

"We need more. By the time the sun is up, the entire parish is going to be trying to storm this cemetery. You," Freddy calls, pointing to the officer looking most like he's going to faint. "Your name?"

"Payne, sir," he responds, voice cracking.

"Constable Payne, return to Leman Street with instructions that they send every constable they can spare." Payne nods, looking thankful to be sent away. "And find me a photographer."

Freddy turns again and walks a half-circle on the hardened dirt path, the grass growing unevenly around and through it. There are blood stains on the ground, on the fence, everywhere—this woman, whoever she was, put up a fight before she fell. He averts his eyes from the viscera strewn around her to examine the objects laid out at her feet: a fine-toothed comb, a piece of muslin, and a torn envelope. He plucks the envelope from the ground to check for an address, but what's left is smudged beyond legibility. Inside, a couple of round yellow pills. He lays it back down and turns to Paswan.

"Tell me what you know," Freddy says. He's aware he's being short but finds himself unable to correct it. Thankfully, Paswan's never been overly concerned with manners.

"Rigor's barely started to set in," she says, lifting the corpse's arm. It bends easily at the elbow. "She can't have been dead more than two hours. The cause of death is the same—neck slashed left to right with a long knife. It's possible she may have been strangled with her scarf first; her face seems be a bit swollen, but I can't be certain." She glances skyward, squinting. "Perhaps under better light."

Paswan's not certain because, again, this corpse's face is more gashes than skin, features carved away, identity undone. She may want better light, but Freddy's thankful for the shadows cast by the church and the mausoleums around it—it helps mask the worst of it.

"Anything out of the ordinary at first glance?" Freddy prompts.

Paswan spares him any quips about the relative overall strangeness of finding an inside-out corpse on a Saturday morning. She holds her lens over an abrasion on the victim's right hand and, much as he'd like to keep his distance, Freddy steps forward to have a look. "I think the killer's taken trophies. A ring, forcibly removed." She gestures at the poor woman's flayed gut and adds, "And perhaps some organs. I'll need a closer look in the mortuary."

Paswan rises effortlessly out of a squat that may have locked Freddy's knees permanently and tucks her notepad and hand lens into her satchel. She's come to the site incognito, wearing a man's jacket and trousers, doing her level best to hide her gender and her color. The sun's risen now, and Paswan must take her leave with it.

"I'll have the body in your dead room within the hour," Freddy says, waving McCarthy back over.

Paswan nods once, then draws a hood up over her head to further conceal herself. It makes Freddy think of Jacob again, with a sharp, sickening pang.

Freddy's vain hope to find a lead other than Jacob Frye has sent dozens of officers to every corner of the neighborhood and beyond. They've conducted house-to-house inquiries throughout Whitechapel to identify suspects. They've gathered alibis for all local surgeons, butchers, slaughterers, cattle boat crewmen—anyone whose profession and tools align with the manner of the mutations. Polly was missing a ring as well, so Freddy had all the pawnbrokers in the area searched for the rings, to try to track her or her killer's movements. None of it turned up anything of use. They are swimming, no, _drowning_ in theories. And none of them are as sound as Freddy's first, prompted by the description of the man Vertie Ross saw arguing with the first victim. This is Jacob Frye's doing. Freddy knows no one else who can dip in and out of the streets like this, killing people without witnesses, leaving no trace of their passage aside from blood spray and convoluted details.

"Sir, the photographer," says Constable Payne. He glances at the victim's body, looking terribly relieved that it's been covered by a tarpaulin. "And his…associate."

Freddy looks around at the new arrivals then scrambles to remove his hat, old habit. "Emma."

Emma Beament steps forward, offering Freddy a sympathetic look. Her photographer, lanky and oily-haired and looking like he wants to be back in bed, starts fussing with his tripod. Emma on the other hand looks fresh and ready to face the day. She's only about a year younger than Freddy but wears her age much better than he does, barely a wrinkle and not even a hint of white in her red hair. He mentioned this to her once—maybe with a little envy, maybe after a few too many drinks at the Ten Bells. Emma laughed and squished her fingers into her soft belly, saying she was _reaping the benefits of being a jollocks at last._

Freddy clears his throat. "Why are you here?"

"To talk to you," she says. "Do you have a few minutes?"

He narrows his eyes and recites, "We're not giving statements to reporters at this time."

Emma arches an eyebrow. "Ah, but borrowing photographers from _London World News_ comes at a price." Freddy crosses his arms, firm. Emma sighs. "Fred, I've not come seeking information. I've come to pass some along. A few minutes?"

He surrenders and leads Emma in the direction of the church, away from the victim. He steers her around with a hand on her elbow, positioning her so her back's to the body before it's uncovered again. She probably knows what he's doing, but she allows it.

"George Lusk," she says in opening. She pulls a notepad from her purse as she does so, flipping backward through it. "Do you know him?"

Freddy rubs the back of his neck, thinking. "Local builder?" he recalls. "A churchwarden too, if I'm remembering the right man."

Emma nods, eyes on the notepad. "He's forming an association called the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, along with a dozen or so other businessmen. They'll announce next week. From what I've learned, they plan to start their own patrols and even hire their own private investigators to look into these murders. They…" Emma pauses, giving Freddy a grim look. She hands over her notes. "Well, they seem to think you're not doing your job very well."

Part of a typed letter is taped inside. It reads: _Finding that, in spite of the murders being committed in our midst our police force is inadequate to discover the author or authors of the late atrocities, we the undersigned have formed ourselves into a committee and intend offering a substantial reward to anyone, citizen or otherwise, who will give such information as will be the means to bring the murder or murderers to justice._

He glances at the names Emma's gathered. He knows these men. Traders, tailors, victuallers—many of them attended Freddy's going-away dinner just months ago. These are the same businessmen who gifted Freddy a beautiful watch, engraved: _Presented to Inspector F.G. Abberline on his leaving the district after fourteen years of service as a mark of their esteem and regard._

Apparently their 'esteem and regard' has dried up.

"Very well," Freddy says tightly. He snaps the notepad shut and holds it out to Emma. She takes it from him carefully. "Let them be barraged by the liars and madmen who've been lining up in our station to feed us impossible tales. With them out of our way, maybe we'll get some 'adequate' policing done."

"These are their words," Emma reminds him softly, "not mine." Freddy looks away, but can see how she scans his face from the corner of his eye. "I know you, Fred. I know you're doing everything you can and doing it better than anyone else in London possibly could."

But that's where the Vigilance Committee is right and Emma is wrong. Freddy's _not_ doing his job, at least not as well as he could be. He needs to find Jacob, immediately, even if the thought of it sets his stomach roiling. He'll find Jacob then…what, exactly? Get him to confess? What are the odds Jacob will give himself up? Will he even be Jacob as Freddy remembers him? The man he knew—knows—wouldn't disembowel one of his victims. He'd been a bit of a wreck the last time Freddy saw him, but surely he's not come unhinged in the time since.

" _Fred_." Freddy's brought to earth by the woosh of the photographer's flash powder and he finds Emma speaking with an emphasis that implies it isn't the first time she's tried to get his attention. "Is there anything I can do to help you? Off the record?"

Freddy could tell her that Polly wasn't Polly. That this plot is even bigger than these sinister killings let on. Emma might be able to get answers that Freddy can't; that's part of what makes her a great reporter—she gets people to talk. And not through trickery or blackmail; she builds trust and upholds privacy. Simply put, Emma is kind.

And that's why she should stay far away from this mess.

"Thank you, Emma," Freddy says. "I'll consider it."

The tarpaulin is back on the body, and Sergeant McCarthy is instructing the photographer to capture the blood spatters on the ground, the fence, the graves. Once the photographer finishes his work and disassembles the mounted camera, Constable Payne escorts him and Emma from the scene. Emma leaves Freddy with a squeeze of his hand in place of the usual kiss on the cheek.

Freddy's not far behind them, pulling the brim of his hat low to avoid the odious gazes of people at the barricades. Barely daylight, and hundreds of locals have gathered at the scene. Lodgers from the declining houses alongside the cemetery call to the crowd that they'll let people up to see the bloodstains in the courtyard below, provided they pay a halfpenny.

Jacob. He needs to find Jacob.

Freddy spends the day at Leman Street getting things sorted, discussing autopsy details with Paswan and delegating to his detectives. By midday, the ground floor of the station is overflowing with eager witnesses and angry residents being counted off and corralled by constables. Freddy's had a telegram from Scotland Yard saying they're increasing H Division's numbers again, sending dozens of additional officers to manage activity at the station and step up patrols.

Sixteen hours have slipped away when Freddy finally leaves for the second part of his shift. He doesn't bother to change clothes—he'll call on old relationships tonight instead of fostering new ones, and if he's recognized as a copper, so be it. His face is well-known around these parts anyway; plainclothes barely disguise him anymore. He starts his search at the Horn of Plenty, one of the innumerable East End landmarks that 'respectable' folks avoid (and that Jacob Frye has been known to frequent).

Freddy talks to the publicans at the Horn of Plenty and the Princess Alice. He pays for a bed at a couple of lodging houses only to go up to the smoking rooms and interrupt games of billiards. He asks Rooks in violet coats if they might tell their boss that Abberline's looking for him. They reply only in snickers.

No one who's ever met Jacob Frye would describe him as subtle. Even so, Freddy knows he'll only be found if he wants to be.

Freddy posts a letter the next morning to the only of Jacob's local contacts from the old days with a known permanent address: Clara O'Dea, now a lobbyist to the Common Council with her eye on a political office of her own. Her reply comes with the evening post, an apology for having no leads along with a troubling note: _I asked some acquaintances in common if they could shed light on Jacob's movements. They gave the impression that he has left public life these last years. A bad time for it, certainly, with what's happening in Whitechapel. If anyone else can sort this mess, it's Jacob._

Freddy spends every night for nearly a week ducking in and out of pubs and brothels and pai gow houses, and he turns up nothing at all. Meanwhile, another victim nears rot in their mortuary. She's named Annie Chapman. Freddy never met Annie and has no reason to believe this corpse has another name, even if there was something fishy about the woman who came to identify her (a madam of some renown named Olwyn Owers). Still he pushes for the fullest possible account of Annie's life so he can cross-refer it with the story told to them by her death.

Contrary details trickle in, such as how this corpse—like the last—is too young and healthy to be a Whitechapel unfortunate. Or how the clothes Annie was found in were too big, inexpertly tucked and cinched to stay in place, which doesn't fit with her past occupation as a crocheter. But he gets his damning evidence when they classify the pills found near her body.

"The medicine was for a lung condition," Paswan reports, looking down at a letter from the London Hospital. "Consumption, most likely, or pulmonary syphilis. Very advanced—this dose was meant for someone in the late stages of the illness."

Freddy turns that information over for a moment. "But the woman in the mortuary…"

"Healthy," Paswan confirms. Freddy starts pacing a circular path around his office, reflexively smoothing down his hair. Paswan doesn't twist in her seat to track his progress when she adds, "I know you're looking for another case of mistaken identity here, Abberline, but she may have been holding pills for a friend. You needn't see conspiracy where there is none."

Freddy mutters, "But there is conspiracy here." Paswan crosses her arms, unconvinced, and Freddy repeats himself more firmly. "There _is_."

Knowing the real Annie Chapman is dying or near-death, wherever she is, tempers some of Freddy's guilt when the day comes to bury not-Annie. He meets a hearse in front of the station at 7:00 a.m., long before any of the reporters or hecklers or phony witnesses start gathering in the street. They transfer the body, and Freddy goes with it to the undertaker (one of the men of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, incidentally, whose "Morning, Inspector" sounds rather sour). By the time they're at the cemetery, it's started to rain.

It's a small ceremony, completely secret—just Annie's children, Annie's brother, and a priest are in attendance. Freddy feels like an intruder. He can't quite look at the family, sniffling and holding each other close. They stand over the small square in a public grave where they're paying to bury someone who's not Annie Chapman, just like William Nichols paid to bury someone who wasn't Polly Nichols. He looks around the cemetery. The sun must be up now, but Freddy can scarcely tell—the clouds are especially thick; the rain is especially heavy.

With night after night of getting only a few hours of sleep (at best), it must be exhaustion that has Freddy's eyes pass unseeing over the silhouette at the far edge of the cemetery once, then twice. When he finally registers it, he thinks first of Ethan Frye, bizarrely enough. It's the pose: arms crossed, chin supported in one hand. But Ethan Frye wore white robes, Freddy recalls sluggishly, and Ethan Frye is dead. The man watching the funeral—rain flattening his hair, shoulders hunched against the cold—is Jacob.

Freddy's breath catches in his throat, and he's stuck to the spot, his thoughts emptying out. A long time ago, clapping eyes on Jacob Frye used to knock him sideways. In those early days and months, whenever Jacob spoke to him, Freddy would have a hell of a time holding the man's gaze. He'd look off to the side (ostensibly to watch for eavesdroppers), allowing himself only the occasional glance back at Jacob's bright eyes and smiling lips. Even when Freddy was accustomed to Jacob and Jacob's attentions—he saw him every day, slept next to him every night—Freddy would catch him at a certain angle or in a certain light and he'd be stricken all over again. His heart would pound and his hands would sweat, and if Jacob caught him staring, he'd knit his brows and ask, 'Freddy, what's wrong?'

But this isn't like that, and as Freddy's pulse starts racing, it's not with rapturous adoration. Not anymore. Freddy needs Jacob for something…for something…God, what was it?

Jacob might see Freddy; he might not. At this distance it's hard to tell. But the instant Freddy remembers why he's been searching for him, Jacob turns on his heel and strides off in the direction of Whitta Road. Freddy follows, forming his excuse to use later with the Chapman family as he starts down the path— _I saw a spectator loitering near the funeral; I wanted to preserve your privacy_. Jacob slips sideways through the chained cemetery gates then starts running outright, cowl bouncing lightly at his shoulders. Freddy matches him, flat shoes slapping against the cemetery's stone path. He squeezes through the same gap Jacob did, not sparing a thought for the button he loses off his waistcoat as he does so.

The streets are still quiet this early, still waking up. Jacob doesn't have a crowd to slip into or a street seller's cart to dodge behind. But what he lacks in opportunities to disappear he makes up for in being frustratingly light on his feet—even in middle age, Jacob's still effortlessly powerful and fast. The distance between them grows and grows as Freddy slips and stumbles along the muddy road in Jacob's wake.

Jacob turns onto the high street and mounts the ledge dividing the footpath from the railroad trench below. Freddy won't catch up now, he can't, but before Jacob scrambles down the opposite wall and out of sight, Freddy sucks in a lungful of damp air and shouts, " _Jacob_!"

Jacob stiffens where he stands on the narrow ledge, then turns to look at Freddy over his shoulder. Freddy jogs to a stop. "Wait!" he calls, breath ragged. The rain and wind sting his skin, warm from giving chase. "Jacob, please."

Jacob frowns. It's a forlorn thing. And for just a moment, Freddy thinks, _Jacob couldn't have done this_. This is a man who used to secretly feed the neighborhood's stray cats, attracting more and more until Freddy woke up every morning to a chorus of imploring meows outside their building. This is a man who wept openly on the day his son was born, and wept again when his son grew up and started making his own decisions. This is a man who Freddy loved once—and loved for far longer than he should have.

And just as quickly as that certainty settles over him, it's swept away when Jacob does something innocent people don't do: he flees. Jacob turns away from Freddy, shoulders sagging, and drops off the edge of the wall.

Freddy rushes across the street and leans over the ledge, looking both ways. Jacob stands on the roof of a train already passing westward into the distance, coat whipping around him as he watches Freddy grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [**Tower Hamlets Cemetery**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tower_Hamlets_Cemetery_Park)  
>  In the game, Annie Chapman was murdered in what appears to be a made-up cemetery. In reality, her body was found in a backyard off Hanbury Street. I split the difference and put the scene in an old cemetery nearest Hanbury Street that matches the look of the one in-game. I believe Tower Hamlets is policed by K Division (Abberline is at H Division) but…History Is Our Playground™ or whatever.
> 
>  **Pimlico**  
>  It's a painfully expensive neighborhood now (even by London's standards, I mean), but [in Abberline's day it was "low genteel"](http://www.victorianlondon.org/districts/character.htm) and close-ish to his new job at the CID.
> 
> [ **The _other_ Whitechapel Murders**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whitechapel_murders)  
>  Before the Ripper took his first victim, there had been two other sex workers murdered in Whitechapel in 1888: Emma Smith and Martha Tabram. Now experts have a "canonical five" Ripper killings, but at the time these murders appeared linked. So if the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee coming together over a weekend seems quick…that's not quite right. Same goes for Abberline being brought back to H Division a day after Polly's murder. She was actually the second body found in a month, and without knowing who had killed Martha Tabram before her, the police realized it was time to bring in a pro.
> 
>  **Whitechapel Vigilance Committee**  
>  I moved the date of their formation up a couple of days for the sake of squishing more things into one scene. The public statement on their formation was taken from _[Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper](http://www.campbellmgold.com/archive_definitive/portrait_of_a_killer_cornwell.pdf)_ (which puts forward Walter Sickert as the Ripper's identity, but that's besides the point).
> 
>  **Abberline's policing style**  
>  From _[Portrait of a Killer](http://www.campbellmgold.com/archive_definitive/portrait_of_a_killer_cornwell.pdf)_ : "It was reported that [Abberline] worked so hard to solve the Ripper murders that he 'almost broke down under the pressure.' Often he did not go to bed and went days without sleep. It wasn't uncommon for him to wear plainclothes and mingle with the 'shady folk' in doss-house kitchens until the early hours of the morning.'" 
> 
> This was more or less Abberline's style from the start. Summarized from _[Abberline: The Man Who Hunted Jack the Ripper,](http://m.bournemouthecho.co.uk/news/10424058.The_man_who_hunted_Jack_the_Ripper/)_ "Abberline swiftly formed the view that constables should make friends with the locals, who, at that time, harboured a deep mistrust of the police. He believed this would result in better tip-offs and he was right. Thanks to his diligence, visiting pubs and shops in plain clothes on his rare days off, he was able to arrest more suspects than anyone else in his division." 
> 
> ( **TL;DR:** The running gag in Syndicate about Freddy wearing disguises was not far from the truth.)
> 
>  **East End pubs**  
>  Many of the [pubs operating in Whitechapel in 1888](http://www.casebook.org/victorian_london/dst-pubs.html) are still open today: "The Ten Bells, The Alma, The King Stores, and The City Darts (formerly The Princess Alice). Two other pubs in the Ripper literature, The Horn Of Plenty and The Britannia, no longer exist."


	7. Forsaking All Others

**1872**

Jacob's not an official member of the Indian Brotherhood, but over the past seven months they learned the hard way that it's best to not let him get restless. And no amount of delivering or receiving training is the same as going out and making Templars' lives miserable. So, now and then the Brotherhood sends him on missions. It's clear that they're tasks of the low-priority, low-skill variety…but they get Jacob out of the bungalow, and that's what matters.

Tonight is a variation on a mission he's completed a dozen times before between Calicut and London: a cargo raid. He's broken into Her Majesty's custom house, a scarcely-lit wooden building that could really use better security than two patrolling guards and an old warded lock. He strolls through the barrels stacked high on their skids—goods awaiting tax payment before they can make their next move—and inhales the peculiar mixture of smells bleeding from packages broken in transit. Tobacco, tannery oil, wine. Jacob imagines if he hung around he'd find loads worth stealing. Another time, perhaps.

The Templar cargo is easy to spot, marked boldly with red crosses. He jimmies one crate open with his hidden blade and isn't surprised by what he finds inside. Weapons. He'd guessed it by the shape of the crate. The next crate contains the same, as does the next. Dozens of neatly arranged Remington and Gras rifles—nothing state-of-the-art, but deadly arms still intended for nefarious purpose. Too sturdy to burn, too unwieldy to carry to the far edge of the harbor and pitch into the water…he'll have to get a cart and move them back to the bungalow. The Brotherhood will be happy for the surplus in guns, at least.

He sneaks out of the custom house and along the docks. They're dead quiet now, where during the day they bustle with fishmongers and oyster-shuckers and all manner of people who make their living off the ocean. Jacob finds what he needs near the lighthouse, its beacon lighting the sky and the treeline but not the man stealing a horse and cart just below. He leads the horse away, cooing at it to keep it calm, then ties it again near the custom house, a few yards down the harbor and out of sight.

The rest is tedious work; the crates are awkward and have to be moved one-by-one. Jacob watches the guards on patrol—men wearing tunics and turbans in regimental red—and slips out as they pass, trying not to step or breathe too heavily while hauling the guns to their destination. He completes the process successfully five times—five times heaving a crate into his arms, five times waiting for the patrols to go by, five times lugging the crate over to the cart. It's on his sixth and final run when things, of course, take a turn.

He lets the patrol pass before stepping out onto the docks with the last load of weapons. The guards are at the corner of the custom house when Jacob's boot comes down a squeaky board that he'd managed to miss every other time he made this journey. One guard glances casually over his shoulder, just in case, clearly not expecting to see Jacob there. When he spots Jacob, the guard makes an abrupt about-face and his quiet conversation in Malayalam turns to a shouted, "You! Stop!"

Jacob freezes a moment, as shocked to be found out as the guards are to find him, then he drops the crate on the ground and starts sprinting for the pier.

The north pier is an enormous thing, extending hundreds and hundreds of feet out into the water and lined by boats of every make and size. The wind throws sand and sea spray into Jacob's eyes as he runs, but he keeps pounding ahead, hurdling over dock supplies. When he's put some distance between himself and the scrambling guards—who have multiplied somehow, more attracted to the chase by the shouts of the first two—he aims his rope launcher at a clipper anchored nearby and zips over.

He lands hard on the deck and lies on his back, hidden behind the gunwale. He shuts his eyes to focus better on the sounds of his pursuers, and it seems they pass him right by, running for the end of the pier. Jacob sighs, relieved, and opens his eyes.

There's a shadow standing over him, holding a sledgehammer over its shoulder.

The shadow doesn't pause for questions. She brings the hammer down in a brutal overhead smash. Jacob yelps and scrambles backward, and the hammer's head comes down hard on the deck boards between his knees. A too-near miss.

"Wait!" Jacob blurts, but the shadow picks up the hammer and swings again, cutting sideways toward his skull, a little clumsy. Jacob drops down and out of the way, wincing as the sledgehammer slams into the gunwale and sends splinters flying. "Oi!" He rolls backward and onto his feet. His attacker swings the hammer again and Jacob ducks beneath it. The sweeping blow has nothing to connect with this time, and the force of it throws her balance a little.

When she speaks—shouts, more accurately—it's in a London accent. "You should've known better than to come back here!"

"Keep quiet!" Jacob hisses.

"We will not be robbed again, you thug!" she roars, getting her footing back and raising the sledgehammer high. "If you thought you'd sneak in here without us shaking a flannin, you were wrong."

"I'm not here to rob you!" Jacob's ready for her next strike—the woman swings and Jacob catches the hammer by the haft, two handed, and holds fast. He repeats himself, firmer this time: " _I'm not here to rob you_."

Jacob gets a proper look at his attacker now that he has her locked in place, and she is…well, the word that keeps coming to mind is 'striking,' which is a groaner. Her hair and her eyes are dark and wild, and she has an aquiline nose that's as big and sharp as a pickaxe. She looks back at him a beat, then makes a fierce (and ultimately unsuccessful) attempt at wresting the hammer from Jacob's grip.

She's panting a little, but she still manages to snarl, "What are you doing on my ship?"

"Hiding," Jacob tells her. "Temporarily. And I would've been long gone by now if I hadn't been attacked by a madwoman with a sledgehammer."

She yanks on the hammer again, planting her feet and getting nowhere. She huffs, then demands, "Hiding from what?"

True, he may not be robbing _her_ cargo, but he's not going to win points by telling her the truth. "We've got to have some secrets," Jacob says, then lets go of the hammer's haft. He decides to redirect her before she can ask more about what he's doing. "Why are you alone? Where's the rest of the crew?"

She searches his face, wary. "Below deck," she lies. Jacob raises a skeptical eyebrow and she looks away. "Fine—I gave them the night off. All of them, inadvertently, and they didn't bother to correct me before running ashore." The woman straightens up, resting her hammer on her shoulder again, and grumbles, "The punch houses are closed by now, so I suspect they've moved on to the brothels."

Jacob clicks his tongue. "My my, intemperate sailors?" he says, grinning. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"

That earns him a smirk, though it's brief. She clears her throat. "Weren't you about to flee, Mister…?"

"Frye," he supplies. "Jacob Frye. And it's true I should be going—unless you'd like some company? You might find use for a watchman, and that happens to be one of my many areas of expertise."

She looks him over. "Was that a flirtation?" She manages to sound completely disgusted by the prospect, but still blushes brightly enough that Jacob can see it in the dark.

"Oh, no—people mistake me for a flirt quite often, but this is just how I talk." He takes stock of his surroundings, charting a path back to the horse and cart, assuming they're still there. It'd be easiest to go up, travel from mast to mast. He's aiming his gauntlet for the main mast of the hammer-woman's clipper when he pauses to say, "I never got your name."

Her mouth twists, fighting a smile, and she parrots: "We've got to have some secrets." _Cheeky_.

—

He wishes he would have left it at that. But he's Jacob Frye, and he's never had a good thing he hasn't managed to break.

The letters between him and Freddy were sent weekly at first, then once every few weeks, but now they've mostly dried up. And they were never love letters to begin with, exactly—just stories about the sights and sounds of India or on how things were proceeding at Y Division.

'Jack's doing remarkably in training—he's a changed boy.'

'Mrs. Sinnett keeps asking where you are. I think I'll start changing my answer to see if she notices.'

'Evie confides she wants to start a family soon. Can you imagine how intolerable her and Greenie's children will be?'

'I swear I saw your friend Topping in the station cells the other morning, but by afternoon he was gone and there's no record of him in the logs. How?'

Jacob finds it so difficult to force out a page or two of updates that he wonders what they ever talked about while together.

Part of him holds out hope that once he returns to London he'll be able to slip back into his and Freddy's flat and curl up with him like nothing's changed. The other part of him is…bitter. It rankles at the knowledge that Freddy could be here with him. Sometimes when he sees a look or touch exchanged between Evie and Henry (or other lovers in the Indian Brotherhood), it doesn't make Jacob long for Freddy's affection so much as it makes him want to beat him around the head and shoulders.

So maybe Freddy deserves it, what happens next.

Jacob's nursing a beer in the corner of his favorite tavern (an establishment called Portuguese George, which has the highest concentration of gambling and prostitution in all of Calicut) when the woman from the pier strolls in. He watches her order gin, and he keeps watching until she spots him. She pretends she doesn't see him for a couple of minutes, surreptitiously glancing back at him once, twice, before she caves and starts to make her way over.

Her hair and dress are in order this time, and she has to squeeze the flexures of her overskirt and bustle through a tight network of wooden chairs and stools to get to him. Tidy and ladylike, she doesn't look like the punch house lowlifes all around, but her complete lack of reaction as a man gets a bottle smashed over his head three feet away makes Jacob think she's been here before.

She clears her throat and asks, "May I sit?" It's a nicer introduction than their last, that much is certain.

Jacob props his foot up on the chair nearest him to stop her. "Only if I can have your name."

She covers her responding smile with a sip of gin. "It's Ada Gibbons." Satisfied, Jacob uses the toe of his boot to ease the chair out so she can join him.

It turns out that Ada's a merchant mariner, a central gear in her father's London-based importing business. She lives and works in Calicut now to organize the imports as they come in and the exports as they go out, but she says she hopes to start going with the ships soon. Then whenever she makes port in Barbados or Hong Kong or Cape of Good Hope, she'll stay a few weeks to meet with trade partners before hopping the next ship in her father's fleet and moving to the next destination.

"Would you say you're seeking a bit more adventure in your life, then?" Jacob rumbles.

"Yes. I've read so much about all these colonies; I can't wait to see them for myself. I—" Ada stops short and tilts her head. "Oh. You were making fun of me."

"What? No! No, not all," Jacob blurts, rushing to stop her from looking so embarrassed. "Truly. I left Crawley for London the exact moment my sister came around to the idea. Wanting to escape your lot for something more exhilarating isn't something to be ashamed of."

"A foolish impulse all the same," says Ada, prim. She laces her fingers together to stop from fidgeting. "Aside from the time spent sailing, it probably won't be so different than it is here, where I sense my business partners insulting me to my face in fifteen different languages."

Jacob squints, tankard paused halfway to his mouth. "Why?"

"You think Victoria's morals haven't taken hold in her colonies?" Ada asks. She shakes her head minutely and continues, "I'm a woman who's traded the private sphere for the public one, and my business partners can't seem to help but punish me for it. Earlier today a merchant tried to make me pay a second time for a shipment of turmeric that was paid in full months ago. I showed him his own signed receipt and he told me it was a fake."

Just like that, all the giddiness she displayed while talking about traveling the colonies dries up. She rolls her glass between her palms and glares at the wall, her fire gone. Jacob hates to see it.

But he has an idea.

He says, "Is their headquarters near here?"

A sideways glance, the same wary look she gave him when he asked if she was all alone on her ship. "Why do you ask?"

Jacob grins, inferring a 'yes.' "Finish your drink, Miss Gibbons." He leans close and murmurs, "We're going on an adventure."

Ada leads him to the spice depot, a smallish warehouse near the harbor. Through the windows near the roof, Jacob can see it's dark inside. Ada clears her throat, rocking on the balls of her feet. "Now what?"

"I was thinking we'd smash all the windows and set the place on fire," Jacob suggests.

Ada laughs. "Surely not."

Jacob had been mostly serious, but he pivots anyway. "All right, something subtler." He strolls up to the front door and fishes his favored picks from his pocket—five key-shaped pins kept on a length of twine.

"Are you mad?" Ada hisses as Jacob works a pick into the lock. "Someone will see us!"

"And done," Jacob announces, pushing the door open. He motions for Ada to enter ahead of him and she does so, glancing nervously both ways for onlookers before stepping softly inside.

"What now?" she whispers as Jacob shuts and locks the door behind them. She looks torn between panic and glee, which is right where he wants her.

"I'm thinking." Jacob saunters through the door of the office and into the shed, which is packed wall-to-wall with open barrels and sacks brimming with cloves and star anise and dried ginger. The smell is...overpowering. He can make out the shapes of wood burning dryers on the back wall. "We should find some turmeric."

Ada draws up next to him, fidgeting with her purse. "Whatever we do, I don't want them to know it was me."

"Why not?" Jacob counters. He turns to face her and leans close to murmur, "They questioned your business sense and called you a liar. Surely you can secure another trading partner in the so-called 'City of Spices' if they suspect you?"

Ada is silent, brow furrowed and gaze pointed at the far wall as she thinks it over. After a moment, the worried expression slides away and is replaced by an uncertain grin. "All right, let's get the turmeric." Jacob claps her on the shoulder a little too eagerly—she winces under it and Jacob has to apologize.

They find their supply of turmeric and Jacob has to wrap both arms around the sack and waddle all the way back to the office in the corner of the warehouse. "Open the drawers," he says, plopping the sack on top of the desk and slicing a hole in the canvas. They flood the desks with turmeric drawer-by-drawer, burying books and papers and knick knacks in golden powder, and when the drawers are full they dump the rest out on the floor.

Ada's giggling as she fits the empty sack over the back of the desk chair. "Ah, they'll never get the color out," she says, laughter building to a snort, which she covers with her hand, looking mortified.

"That's…" Jacob stiffens and looks toward the door they came through. Someone's there, a tall silhouette on the other side of the window. Shit. Ada's noticed it too, and that's lucky, because it means she doesn't make a sound as Jacob grabs her wrist and rushes back through to the warehouse.

They round the corner just as the office door opens and a man steps over the threshold. Jacob drags Ada to the floor and half on top of him just as a lamp lights in the office. _Don't open the drawers_ , Jacob thinks. _Don't come in here, and don't open the drawers_. They can't see what the interloper is up to, but Jacob listens closely, and looks around them for another exit. He could make it out the windows easily, but Ada's skirts won't allow that much movement, even with Jacob's help. He'd have to knock the man out, and that would change the tone of the evening entirely.

It's a couple of minutes in tense silence, Ada barely breathing, Jacob uncomfortably aware of her knee between his, before the man gets what he came for and leaves. There's sound of the lock being turned again, then silence.

"He's gone," Jacob breathes.

Ada sighs, slumping against his chest. Her voice is muffled by his shirt when she says, "My god, my heart's never beat so fast." Jacob chuckles.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean for our adventure to be such a close call."

Ada's head pops up and she moves off him, skirts spread out wide as she kneels on the warehouse floor. Jacob sits up next to her, trying not to be disappointed. "No, it's…it's a proper adventure this way, isn't it?" she says, sounding a little hopeful.

"I'd say so." He smiles over at her and adds, "I hope I haven't put you off your dreams of a swashbuckling lifestyle."

"Not at all. You make me want to…pickpocket a soldier. Or scale a lighthouse. Or sail a gunter out from the harbor and go swimming naked in the sea," she tells him, it all coming out in a rush.

Jacob laughs outright at that and says, "I'd wager we could manage a couple of those things by the end of the night. Where would you like to start?"

Ada smiles, close-lipped, and says, "No, no—you've been kind to indulge me so far." She scoots a little closer, and even though it's subtle, it's the boldest thing Ada's done all night. They're practically nose-to-nose (which, given the sizes of their respective noses, isn't as close as one might think) when Ada admits, "At the same time, I…suppose I don't want tonight to be over."

Jacob smirks. He'll take that challenge. He lifts his chin and touches his lips to hers.

She's just so close—and so warm—and it's been so long. What's a kiss, or another kiss, or another? What's he to do with her contented little moan but moan back, send his fingertips off exploring the seams of her dress? Jacob does his level best to keep his hands from wandering too high or too low. He needn't have worried, however—after a while, Ada slips a hand between them to give his groin a rather pointed squeeze.

Jacob pulls away and blurts, "What, here?" He has no objections, but Ada's…a lady. In satin skirts and dainty gloves. He's always had a way with people looking to escape their drab lives, but still—sex on the floor of a warehouse doesn't seem quite her style.

"Yes," Ada breathes, fingers fumbling at the fly of his trousers. "Here."

Jacob doesn't give her the chance to shy away again—he chases her fingers with his, making quick work of the buttons. He smirks into their next kiss as Ada wiggles closer and hikes up her skirts.

—

Weeks pass before Jacob sees Ada again, and her opening line can only mean trouble: "I've been looking for you," she murmurs, cornering him at the same table in the same punch house. "We should talk."

Pregnant. Just like that. Ada twists her gloves in her hands as she speaks, looking everywhere but at Jacob.

"I don't mean to ensnare you," she says. "I tried to escape it myself and…undo it. Parsley root and cohosh and a couple of other remedies I've heard of. I hope you'll forgive me, only—I'm not married and it's hard enough to do business without the men around me thinking I'm a strumpet."

Her eyes flicker over to Jacob, watching for a reaction that he knows better than to give. He'd have done the same, in Ada's position, without a second of moralizing. He's glad she didn't seek any remedies that poisoned her—he's lost a couple of Rooks that way, and it's so much harder, so much more unfair, than losing them to Blighter bullets or blades.

Jacob rubs his face, quite sober now where he had a pleasant buzz just a minute ago. He doesn't see a way around it. "Will you return to London with me? Two months from now—will you be fit to travel?"

Ada wrinkles her nose. "Why?" Isn't that obvious?

"To…start a life together," he says, frowning. "If we marry immediately, we can say the baby was born early, once it comes. No one will be the wiser." Jacob's made a concerted effort these past couple of years to cut down the number of steps between 'Jacob mucks it up' and 'Jacob does the right thing.' He can't let Ada go it alone, can't let his daughter or son grow up not knowing their father. If there was any time to make a show of how different he is from Ethan Frye, it's now, when he has the choice between fear and fatherhood.

"What an amorous proposal," Ada says, a sour laugh bubbling up through her words. She props her elbows on the table and leans her head into her hands. "Mr. Frye, I only told you because I thought you deserved to know. As for the rest…I can manage on my own."

"I don't doubt it for a minute," Jacob assures her. He reaches for her hand and clasps it between both of his. It feels like the right thing to do. "And I'm sorry I'm not on one knee, but we'd be fooling ourselves if we carried on that way. But I do think it's…very possible that we'll find a happy partnership here. If nothing else, we'll be friends on quite an adventure. I know marriages built on less."

Jacob kisses her knuckles, then smiles, hoping it looks encouraging. Ada returns the smile, slowly. "I'll consider it," she says with a small nod.

"Good." Jacob gives her hand a final squeeze then lowers it. Silence blooms between them, not quite awkward, not quite anything. The punch house crowd shouts and sways and sings, their lives no different now than the moment they walked in. The same can't be said for Jacob. He sighs after a beat and chuckles, idly examining at the chipping green paint on the far wall.

"What is it?" Ada asks.

Jacob cocks his head, grinning. "Oh, I'm just wondering how many times you've wished that first swing with your sledgehammer hit the mark." It makes Ada smile, sunny despite it all. Jacob feels a bit sunny too.

That bubble pops the moment he thinks of Freddy. Bloody hell… _Freddy_.

Jacob had planned to confess to that one infraction—the night in the warehouse—and had hoped Freddy would forgive him. He'd forgive Freddy, were the situations reversed. In fact, he'd found himself actively wishing that Freddy slept with someone in his absence. Then it'd be an even trade, all guilt canceled out. Now it'd only be an even trade if Freddy got that hypothetical someone pregnant, but only Jacob has that kind of luck.

Besides, hoping Freddy has slept with someone else is as foolish as it is selfish. Not only is the man horribly shy and unsure in the face of even the most blatant coquetry (Jacob can attest to this himself), but Freddy's also faithful to a fault. He'd never do to Jacob what Jacob's done to him.

Jacob's thought it most of the time they've been together: he doesn't deserve Freddy. Now he's gone and fulfilled that prophecy. And Jacob's not sure he deserves Ada either. He only hopes she hasn't figured that out.

—

Jacob's been back in London a couple of weeks now and has only just summoned the willpower to do this thing.

He leans against the wall outside his old rooms in Whitechapel. He can see light under the door, can hear soft footsteps inside. He has the odd sense that it's a different time there, past the threshold—a sense that on the other side of the shut door exists a different world where the last several months didn't happen. He's in there with Freddy, and Freddy's smoking his pipe and Jacob's cleaning his blade. Maybe they never separated or maybe they're happily reunited, and this is the quiet start of their forever.

He doesn't want to puncture the daydream. But he must. He straightens up and knocks. The sounds of the locks turning send his stomach turning too. He briefly considers fleeing—it might be easier to spend the rest of his life pretending he's died in India than having this conversation—but it's too late. Freddy's cracking the door open, and seeing those brown eyes go wide and hopeful makes Jacob ache.

Freddy's changed a bit. It's been over a year, so of course he has. His hair's a little smoother, and he's traded his sidewhiskers for a trimmed beard, hiding away his dimpled chin. Freddy eases the door fully open and stares at Jacob, silent.

Whatever torrent of vile emotions Jacob's feeling must show on his face—Freddy doesn't smile, doesn't rush forward to embrace him. Maybe it's better that he doesn't, even if selfishly Jacob wants to touch him just once more. Just once.

"You're back," Freddy murmurs, eyes a little unfocused. It's as though he's trying to look through Jacob instead of at him.

Jacob clears his throat, which has gone awfully tight. "I am."

Freddy's gaze skips down the length of him, and Jacob supposes he's changed a bit too. Different clothes. Too-long hair tied back with a strip of leather until he can make time for the barber. Managing the Rooks along with his initiates, caring for Ada as she gets farther along—there's never any time for anything.

Freddy says, "Do you want to talk?" He shouldn't be the one asking that question, but since it's out there, Jacob nods. Freddy lets him inside and Jacob's eyes travel the flat and the collection of things that can't be divided into Jacob's property or Freddy's property anymore. It's all just…theirs. Or was.

They sit at the table, their usual spots, and it's wonderfully and dreadfully familiar. Jacob takes a breath to speak once, twice, but can't settle on how to start. He wishes he'd prepared, but he spent all these weeks leading up to this trying not to think about it instead. Freddy, of course, only waits. He seems torn between drinking in the sight of Jacob and looking anywhere, everywhere else.

"I've come to apologize," Jacob begins. "I made a mistake in India. And I'm…balancing the books now." Freddy knits his brows but doesn't speak. "I met a woman and we…" Jacob sighs. He can't look at Freddy and say it. He picks a spot on the wall to look at, then spits it all out in a hurry: "I'd expected to come here and ask your forgiveness for being disloyal. And if you gave it, things would be as they were. But instead I'm here to tell you she's pregnant. We're getting married."

Jacob glances up, at Freddy who's gone very pale. Jacob wishes he'd throw out some barbed comment, but he leaves Jacob to weigh his silence and search for something more to say. Jacob begins, "I was going to put it in a letter…"

"I wish you had," Freddy murmurs.

"…but I wanted to tell you face-to-face. Don't you understand?"

Freddy stares at him, chewing on the inside of his cheeks, and even if Jacob deserves it he can't stand the hurt in that look. He's thankful when Freddy mumbles something inaudible then pushes out from the table. He stands at the hearth, his back to Jacob. Jacob waits.

"We never said we'd be together when you returned," Freddy says eventually. "You didn't owe me a conversation."

"Of course I did." Jacob looks at the line of Freddy's back, shirt rumpled from sitting. It's so familiar. He fights the urge to stand to give him a comforting touch.

If they were arguing properly, red faced and shouting, this might be easier. Jacob could offer his many justifications and maybe, just maybe, Freddy would say something cruel enough that Jacob would get to be hurt too. As it is, this is all terribly one-sided.

"Freddy, look at me." Freddy's shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. He turns but doesn't meet Jacob's eyes. "I'm sorry," Jacob continues, pleading in his voice. "Believe me when I say I didn't mean for any of this to happen. It was just—"

"What did I do wrong?" Freddy cuts him off, voice shaking.

"Wh…?" Jacob can't begin to understand that. Freddy's meant to be cross, not contrite. Being cross would be infinitely, infinitely better than Freddy feeling like he'd done something to deserve this. Well, he could have come to India. But that's…looking at Freddy's dark, doleful eyes, Jacob hates that he pretended for even a moment that Freddy had a hand in their falling apart. "Nothing, Freddy. You did nothing wrong."

Freddy lifts a hand to shield his eyes. His fingers are shaking. Jacob can't watch. He looks at the floor and waits. He waits a long time before Freddy takes a heavy breath and speaks. 

"Do you love her?" he asks, voice cracking.

Jacob swallows. They had an unconventional start, him and Ada, but they've had time to get to know each other now. She's bright and sweet and definitely lets him win when they play cards. As her belly grows bigger and her smiles grow surer, Jacob's more and more excited about their future. They've already seen the world together, part of it, which is a brilliant start. Jacob hopes they'll take many journeys together. The next is welcoming the little one, who started kicking a while back. Jacob holds his hands to Ada's belly whenever he can, waiting for it. _I could just tell you when it starts_ , she says, because Jacob's annoying when he's underfoot, and he replies, _But I don't want to miss it_. He gasps when it happens, almost pulling his hands away in shock. Jacob asks, _What does it feel like?_ and Ada tilts her head, thinking, then tells him, _Like poking your tongue at the inside of your cheek_. Everything's strange and new, thrilling and frightening. But being with her makes him feel warm.

Freddy wants to know if Jacob loves her, and he replies, "Yes, I think I do."

Freddy's gaze slides over and meets Jacob's, and it's a wide open look. "And do…" Whatever he was going to say, Freddy seems to think better of it, and his eyes flicker away again. "Then I wish you well," he says, oddly stiff. Freddy lifts his hand to motion at the door. "Make sure you check in with Mrs. Sinnett to settle things with the flat. I'll be out by the end of the month."

"You don't have to move out."

"I want to," Freddy says. "I…" He shakes his head, then motions again at the door.

Jacob stays in his chair. He wants this conversation to be over, of course he does, but it doesn't feel like they said what needed to be said. Maybe because what Jacob wants to say is _I love you too, still_. He stands and goes to the door. He turns the handle, then pauses to say, "I want to remain your friend, if you can stand it." He glances back at Freddy, whose eyes are pointed determinedly away. Freddy doesn't reply.

Jacob leaves the flat, closing the door softly behind him. He waits on the other side, though he's not sure what for. To hear a sob, or perhaps a glass shattering against the wall as Freddy's temper takes hold. Instead there's only quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ada**  
>  If this were proper fiction, we'd spend a lot of time getting to know Ada, coming to enjoy Ada, really feeling the agony of Jacob's decision. But this is fanfic, and we're blitzing right through all the bits that aren't Jacob/Freddy centric. Just...calling out my own unwriterly habits here.
> 
>  **Calicut**  
>  Henry's family is from Amritsar, but even after being accepted back into the Indian Brotherhood, I can't imagine things going very swimmingly between Henry and Arbaaz. I put him, Evie, and Jacob in Calicut for this part of the story, which is [the location for some of the guild missions in AC: Brotherhood](http://assassinscreed.wikia.com/wiki/Calicut). I like to imagine their guild is still going strong in the nineteenth century. 
> 
> **[British Colonial India's drinking scene](http://www.academia.edu/3360159/The_Drinking_habits_of_our_countrymen_European_Alcohol_consumption_and_colonial_power_in_British_India)**  
>  "'White subalterns' brought all the drunk and disorderly behavior of Britain's most transgressive pubs with them abroad, to the moralistic horror of statesmen and religious figures trying to make colonization look like a blessing." I imagine these places would have made Jacob feel right at home.


	8. Determine Never to Be Idle

**1874**

He did it after Martha died, and he does it again now. Freddy throws himself into work, refusing to take even a Sunday off. If he's too busy to think, he won't dwell on what he's lost. If he's bone-tired at the end of every day, he'll fall asleep easily instead of staring at the wall and imagining what his life might look like if he'd gone with Jacob to India. 

Freddy works and works until one spring he's promoted from sergeant to inspector. He's transferred to H Division, Whitechapel—the most dangerous parish in the city, for both the people who live there and the police who serve it. There's nowhere he'd rather be. 

Jacob's desire to keep Freddy's friendship does, at the very least, prove useful. There's an infinite number of East End gangs that need putting down, and sometimes it's easiest to fight crime with crime. Freddy employs Jacob and the Rooks to end the reign of the Bessarabians, a gang that specializes in terrorizing the many Russian Jewish immigrants who call Whitechapel home. He calls on the Rooks again to take out the Odessians, a vigilante group that sprung up to fight against the Bessarabians before becoming a gang themselves. The Strutton Ground Boys crop up in the Odessians' wake, followed by the Blind Beggar Gang…and all in all Freddy sees a lot more of Jacob than he'd like. 

But he puts on a brave face. He says yes to the drink at the pub, to the stroll through Petticoat Lane Market. He forces himself to ask Jacob about his family, and Jacob always answers eagerly and unselfconsciously. "Emmett keeps pulling himself up on furniture and standing…do you think it's possible he'll skip crawling entirely and just start walking? Can babies do that?" Or: "I'm trying to get better at cooking…we want to split things equally, Ada and me. Would you mind writing down that pigeon compote recipe?" Freddy would honestly rather talk about the Assassins, even if he's always found the idea of the secret order a little ridiculous. But even when he and Jacob were lovers, the Assassins had been a touchy topic. As friends, Jacob's taken these secrets back. 

It's not that Freddy doesn't want to see Jacob happy. (Jacob's so effervescently excited about being a father, and Freddy never could have given him that. They could have taken in a dozen more kids like Jack the Lad, but it wouldn't have been the same, not really.) It's just peculiar watching Jacob's life blossom the way it has. Freddy harbors no daydreams about a family or a dog or a cozy house on the outskirts of London's foggy streets. These aren't goals he's set for himself. But watching Jacob's progress on this path gives Freddy a nagging feeling that he's fallen behind. That he's pitiable, somehow, and leading a less-than-full life. When Freddy asks Jacob about his family, Jacob has no equivalent question to ask back. 

Freddy's constant labor, which continues well after the promotion, eventually lands him a forced night off. His team treats Freddy and another senior officer to two tickets to the Hoxton Varieties. Inspector Eckley takes ill, however, so Freddy goes alone. He doesn't time the trip very well and barely makes it before the curtain rises. There's no queue this way, at least, but there are three women clumped at the box office ahead of him. 

"…three tickets, I'm sure of it," one of them is saying as he approaches. 

The box office clerk replies, "I'm sorry, miss, but there are only two tickets held under the name Beament." 

The women talk over one another: "What about Webber; can you check for a ticket for Webber?" And: "You're sure the show's _completely_ sold out?" 

Freddy clears his throat and steps forward. "I have a spare ticket," he says. The heads of the women and the box office clerk all swivel to look at him, and Freddy feels his face go hot beneath their combined gaze. "My—my colleague who meant to join me is ill. Two for Abberline, please," he concludes, looking toward the clerk. 

Freddy has to lean awkwardly around the women and reach far down the length of the counter to fetch the tickets as the clerk slides them forward. He holds one out to the woman nearest him—plump and pretty, her ginger hair twisted back in a complex braid—and she takes it, carefully. 

Her friends start a chorus of 'thank you, sir' and 'so generous' but the ginger woman only smiles, close-lipped. "You're sure?" she says, holding the ticket up between her index and middle fingers. 

"Of course. It'll be nice to have some company." Realizing they may not want to debate who's forced to sit next to the strange bachelor while he's standing there, Freddy says, "I'll see you inside," and strides off. 

Freddy follows the usher down the aisle, eyes going wide as he's led closer and closer to the front. The usher points to two empty seats partway down the second row, and Freddy slides past other theatre-goers' knees to reach his chair. The curtain draws back and the crowd gasps delightedly at the sight: an all-female troupe of acrobats posed around the stage, wearing lurid orange. They balance each other on their shoulders, in their arms—tense and impossibly strong. Freddy's transfixed until he sees movement on the edge of the row. It's the usher again, with the same woman he handed the ticket to. Freddy's glad it's her. He's not sure why. 

She bumps down the aisle, whispering apologies to each set of knees that she squeezes past. She plops down next to Freddy, pauses to try to gather and straighten her skirts, then looks up and hits him with a dazzler of a smile. The audience gasps again as the acrobats twist into a new formation, but in that moment it doesn't even occur to Freddy to glance at the stage. 

"Thank you for the ticket; you saved us from a terrible disappointment," she whispers. "I'm Emma, by the way." 

She gives no last name, so he matches her and replies, "Frederick." 

"I'm glad to meet you, Freddy." She smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Er, can you not call me…just not Freddy, please." It's an irrational reaction—after all, Freddy thinks of _himself_ as 'Freddy.' He didn't used to, not even when he was a child. But for years it was the first name he was addressed by when he woke and the last name he heard before he fell asleep. He read it at the top of notes left on his desk; he heard it murmured over and over into his skin with a kind of reverence ill fit for a moniker once given mockingly. So when other people use it, it…curdles. 

"Fred, then?" Emma presses on, unaffected. "Or are all nicknames off-limits?" 

"Fred's fine," Freddy says. He meets Emma's smile with one of his own, and keeps glancing sidelong at her as she turns back to watch to the show. 

At intermission they get chatting, about how they both grew up the children of shopkeepers, about whether Freddy knows this or that family from Blandford. Freddy's not used to responding to a woman's questions about his career with, 'And what do you do?'—and Emma's obviously used to not being asked. She supplies it on her own: she's a journalist. 

"You're a…I wouldn't have guessed that," Freddy says, straightening up and trying to remember everything he's said up to this point and whether it can be used in some sort of interview. The seats have filled in again; the show's about to start. He'd meant to get up and get them a drink, but the time slipped away from him. 

"Because I'm a woman?" Emma infers. 

"No! No, not that. It's just that you seem so…nice," Freddy explains haltingly. 

She arcs an eyebrow. "Oh, so journalists can't be nice?" 

"No! I mean, yes, of course they can be. I…" The lights dim and the curtains on stage start rolling back again. Freddy sighs and sits back in his seat. _Twit_. 

The show ends and they file out quickly, buffeted along by the crowds hurrying to get out. They meet Emma's friends in the lobby, and Freddy gives Emma a small smile that she returns before they part ways. It's raining outside, and he pats his hat down on his head before starting across the street. People are arguing with each other on the footpath about who hailed which cab; Freddy decides to seek out an omnibus instead. 

Why can't he talk to people he likes? Why does he operate like he has so much to lose? Even if she scoffed at him, the odds of Freddy and Emma crossing paths again in the near future were slim. He doesn't have to wait for people to approach him; he doesn't have to throw away every chance he has at happiness just because he's afraid… 

A woman's scream sounds from across the street, near the theater. Freddy looks over his shoulder and sees the crowd jostling as someone roughly shoulders their way through. A man bursts through the front of the crowd, clutching a woman's purse in one hand. He sprints toward Freddy—his mistake—and Freddy takes three quick steps forward and sticks out his ankle to trip the thief, sending him face first into a horse trough at the edge of the footpath. 

Freddy twists the thief's arms behind him and snatches the purse out of his grip before letting him up out of the trough. Freddy pivots them around to face the theater. Standing out in front of the crowd, halfway across the street, is Emma…and she's missing her purse. She puts her hands on her hips and grins, shoulders shaking in a chuckle Freddy can't quite hear. 

— 

Freddy sees his second chance and takes it, about as haltingly as can be expected. Emma—Emma _Beament_ , according to the statement she gives after the incident with the purse-snatcher—is only needed at the station for a couple of visits before her robber is tried and sentenced. It takes Freddy about a week of planning and rehearsing before he can show up at _London World News_ to call on her. 

He says, "I wanted to see how you were holding up after that dreadful business at the theater." 

He's twirling his hat in his hands, squinting at the sunlight glinting off a nearby window and looking like a fool. Emma takes mercy on him and replies, "Fred, would you like to meet me after work for tea?" 

Courting Emma is easy. She's bold and clever and always she says what she means, even if it takes their conversation in a direction he never intended for it to go. She's observant to the point of nosiness, but their shared love for uncovering the truth means eventually they collaborate on cases. Emma can turn up facts off the books that Freddy can't, and Freddy can feed her information that gives Emma an edge over other reporters. 

They're a good team. They're a great team. And they don't have to live in the shadows; Freddy almost forgot what that was like. The first time Emma loops her arm through his in public, he almost shakes her off, not remembering that this is perfectly sanctioned. There's no need to measure and hold a certain distance between them, just in case. There's no need to be watching all around for suspicious, knowing eyes. He's allowed to walk arm-in-arm with Emma and be completely enveloped by her conversation and her squinty smiles, and he can't believe he ever lived another way. 

He's walking with Emma in Regent's Park, so wrapped up in her passionate retelling of the time she squared off against the ducks in the canal that he doesn't notice the people coming toward them until a familiar voice calls, "Freddy?" 

Freddy stops short, startled, and his eyes widen as they land on Jacob, who's bent low as he jogs behind Emmett, who totters up the path on stiff little legs. Jacob widens his stride for the two paces it takes to catch up with his son. Jacob sweeps him up and tosses him into the air, eliciting a squeal of delight from the child, before he settles him against his side. "Got you," Jacob whispers, and Emmett makes a noise that's half-giggle, half-gurgle. 

Emma's watching Freddy, who's watching Jacob, who's watching Emma. Freddy comes-to after a moment, realizing he's meant to make introductions, and stammers, "Er…sorry, where are my manners? Yes. Emma, this is…Jacob Frye. Jacob, meet Emma Beament." 

"Ah, I've heard about you," Emma says, shaking Jacob's hand. That makes Jacob light up briefly; he does so love being talked about. 

"Good things?" Jacob prompts. 

Emma lies: "Yes, absolutely." Freddy tries to recall the times he's mentioned his 'associate' Jacob to her, and he's quite sure it's only ever been to complain about a bungled arrest or an overstayed welcome. Jacob tests him, has always tested him, and it's been a long time since Freddy had anyone to gripe to about it. 

Jacob, on the other hand, didn't know that Emma existed until this exact moment. (Freddy just hadn't found an appropriate time to bring her up.) Before Jacob can blurt something to that effect, Ada appears at his side. She'd been trailing behind her husband and son as they went zig-zagging ahead. 

"Inspector Abberline," Ada says, smiling her soft smile. "How are you?" 

"I'm well, thanks. May I present Emma Beament?" 

Emma extends a hand and Ada takes it. "Ada Frye. You know, we're always asking Freddy over for dinner and he's always wriggling out of it somehow. Maybe the trick is extending the invitation to both of you. What do you think, Jacob?" She turns to look at her husband. "…Jacob?" 

Jacob's wearing a far-off, unreadable expression. He's brought back by Emmett smushing a chubby hand against his cheek and parroting his mum as best as he can: "Jaybub." 

Jacob quirks an eyebrow at his son, then looks around at the expectant group. He clears his throat. "Sorry, I was…somewhere else. What were you saying?" 

"That we should host the inspector and Miss Beament for dinner," Ada supplies. She touches Jacob on the arm and continues, "Tonight, perhaps? We were going to have roast quails and three-and-three pudding, and either we could pick at leftovers for a week…or we could have company." 

Jacob adjusts his hold on Emmett, hiking him a little higher as he says, "Er—tonight?" Then, to Emma and Freddy, "Do we want to…we don't want to monopolize your time, not on a nice day like today." 

"Oh, not at all!" Emma replies. "We'd love to come if you'll have us. Right, Fred?" 

He's purposefully dodged every dinner invitation until now, which was easy because they were always delivered second-hand by Jacob who never expected a yes, never pushed when Freddy gave a weak excuse. 

Freddy blows out a sigh, then pastes on a mild smile. "What time should we arrive?" 

— 

Jacob and Ada live in a terraced house on the edge of the city—close enough to make traveling into London a snap, but far enough out that all the commotion and soot and horse shit isn't quite so suffocating. It's a lovely place to raise a little boy, and Freddy finds himself thankful for Emmett's presence in the sitting room—it halves the amount of awkward small talk they have to do. They can just observe him as the curious creature he is. 

Emmett keeps stacking his wooden alphabet blocks into precarious little towers before swinging his arm in a wild arch and purposefully knocking them over. Every time he sends the blocks clattering over the floor, he whips his head around to check that his audience was paying proper attention. He looks a lot like Jacob, Emmett does, and never more so than when he's acting showy. 

Emmett gets up from where he's playing to press a block into Freddy's hands, giving him a long, serious look. "Oh—er. Thank you?" Freddy says. 

From across the sitting room, Jacob informs him, "We're learning about sharing, and he's a bit annoying about it." Emmett waddles over to Jacob to hand him a block as well, and Jacob takes it with a murmured, "Thanks, mate." 

Ada's mother, Mrs. Lottie Gibbons, appears in the doorway. She has a round face that might appear kind if it weren't for the severity of her silver glasses and the lace collar that creeps almost all the way up to her chin. Lottie moved in with Ada and Jacob recently, though Jacob hadn't mentioned it before today. 

"That child should have been in bed half an hour ago, Jacob," Mrs. Gibbons says, stopping in the doorway long enough to untie her apron before walking down the hall. 

Jacob glares at the empty doorway for a second before rising from his seat to pick Emmett up. Jacob asks the lad if he'll say goodnight to their guests, but Emmett just smiles shyly and turns his face into Jacob's neck. The furrow that appeared in Jacob's brow when Lottie came by smooths over at that; it's replaced with a hint of a smile. He reaches up to stroke Emmett's hair and murmurs, "Perhaps not." 

Jacob carries the lad from the room. It's quiet but for the muffled sounds of Ada going between the kitchen and dining room. Freddy slides off the settee to kneel on the rug and start arranging Emmett's alphabet blocks in their box. 

Quietly, mindful of the thin walls, Emma says, "I'm sorry I dragged you here." Freddy waves a hand. "I admit I've wanted to see this vexing Jacob in action. And Ada seems so sweet." 

"There's no need to apologize," Freddy says. "I couldn't evade their invitation forever, could I?" Emma tilts her head, offering a sympathetic smile. 

He's glad he didn't have to do it alone. With Emma here he's treated less like the sad bachelor who needs looking after. (He gets enough of that when he visits his siblings.) 

Ada crosses the threshold, scrubbing the back of her hand across her sweating forehead and smiling weakly. "Dinner's ready. Sorry for the delay." 

Ada leads them to the dining room, which has a big china hutch on one side and an ornate fireplace on the other. Freddy's been trying not to notice how few of Jacob's things from the old flat made it to the house. Either Jacob purged it all after Freddy moved out, or he keeps a cluttered study somewhere in the house and defers to Ada's smart decorating tastes for the other rooms. Freddy admits the overall effect is nice…everything matches and there isn't a single blood stain in sight. 

Jack's missing from the scene too. Freddy doesn't want to ask about him. He doesn't want to come off like he's cross that Ada gets to live a life free of Jack when Freddy hadn't earned that luxury. It's different. With Emmett there, it's different. 

Freddy drinks enough wine for things to be warm and easy, and after a while he and Jacob dominate the conversation with the rapid back-and-forth they often fall into when they're alone. 

"I've never met someone who loves paperwork more," Jacob's saying, a forkful of food stopped halfway between his plate and his mouth. "Freddy never stops to think, 'Ah, maybe since I'm off the clock and all this person's doing is taking a piss in an already piss-smelling alley, I can just let it lie.'" 

Mrs. Gibbons reprimands Jacob for his 'club' language, but Freddy, a little tipsy, talks right over her. "That was you!" Freddy reminds Jacob. "That was you in the alley, and you were so drunk that you didn't recognize me when I was a foot away. I only put you in the nick so you didn't end up falling in the Thames." 

Jacob gestures broadly with his glass as he proclaims, "I have never fallen into the Thames." 

"Yes you have," Freddy retorts, which makes Jacob snicker into his sip of wine, burbling. "I'd say it's happened at least twice since I've known you, and those are just the times that I saw you before you found a change of clothes." 

Jacob finishes his sip and casts his eyes around the table, at Emma's and Ada's and Mrs. Gibbons' wrinkled noses. "My misspent youth," he comments, then delicately adjusts the position of his wine glass on the table. 

Emma's slicing a strip off her roast quail, eyes on her plate, as she interjects to ask, "How long have you known each other?" 

"Er—five…" 

"Six?" 

"Right, about six years now." 

Mrs. Gibbons, who's sitting on Emma's left, puts in: "I understand that they work together, though I can't pretend to know what it is Jacob does, precisely." 

Freddy glances between Jacob, who's glaring again, and Ada, who's looking sheepish. Ada must know some of what Jacob does. Perhaps she doesn't get a briefing at the end of each day about who he's been intimidating and assaulting and why, but Freddy can't imagine Jacob keeping all his layers of criminal identity hidden from his wife. Still, it's not surprising that that information hasn't made it up to Mrs. Gibbons. Who would knowingly let their daughter marry a gang leader and assassin? 

For Mrs. Gibbons' benefit, and Emma's, Freddy tries to bring to mind the line he has ready for whenever the Superintendent finally figures out how he doesn't miss a single tough arrest. He clears his throat and briskly explains, "With his investments throughout the city and his connections to both London's underclass and the upper echelons, I sometimes enlist Jacob's help when an investigation can't pass a closed door." 

"You're a policeman, then?" Mrs. Gibbons infers. 

Freddy nods. "I am." 

"He's an inspector, mum," Ada says, and Freddy feels a little jolt of affection for her. "I told you this, remember?" 

"Ah, yes." Mrs. Gibbons transfers her fork and knife to one hand so she can lift a finger to push her glasses up her nose. "In _Whitechapel_. I'm surprised to learn anyone's policing that borough. You must not be very good at your job." 

Freddy is seated directly across the table from Emma, so he can see how her fingers tighten into fists over her silverware. But she's a guest here, and she quite likes Ada, so she stays silent, if thin-lipped. 

But Jacob isn't playing with that rulebook. Mrs. Gibbons' remark is barely out of her mouth and he's throwing his fork and knife down on his plate with a deafening clatter. "You… _stupid cow_." 

Mrs. Gibbons stares, jaw slack, like she's done nothing to merit such insult. Ada snaps Jacob's name, but he ignores her. 

Jacob lifts a finger and hisses, "You can nag me all you like, but you will keep your opinions about my friends locked up inside your twisted, mean little brain, all right?" 

More than anything she's done up until now, the fact that Mrs. Gibbons doesn't look petrified in the face of Jacob's anger tells Freddy that she truly has no idea that her son-in-law spends his days breaking bones. She scoffs and insists, "I was merely commenting on the state of—" 

" _No_ ," Jacob cuts her off, his voice rising to something just this side of a shout. "No, what you were doing was being a dreadful shitspade, like usual." 

Silence falls. Mrs. Gibbons is holding a delicate hand to her chest, while Jacob's gone all red-faced with…hatred, it must be, because Jacob so rarely flushes from shame. Freddy casts a look at Ada, who appears as frozen as he feels. Emma, meanwhile, is looking at Jacob with some mix of fondness and respect. 

Upstairs, Emmett starts to cry. Jacob deflates and pushes harshly out from the table, murmuring, "I'll get him," as he walks to the door. 

"That's a first," Mrs. Gibbons sends back. 

This time, Jacob does shout when he turns and snaps, "Shut up, Lottie!" 

Mrs. Gibbons gasps, affronted, and glances around the table for support that she's not going to get. After a few heavy seconds, Emma clears her throat. "Perhaps we should take our leave." 

Ada sighs. She's blushing fiercely. Freddy's face feels a bit hot too—sympathetic embarrassment, perhaps. "Let me wrap some dessert for you to take home," Ada says. 

Ada and Jacob (and Emmett, sniffling pathetically, face wet with snot and tears) send them away with almond cakes and a round of apologies. Emma and Freddy walk down the quiet street toward the commercial corridor a few blocks away. Freddy carries the desserts in one hand and offers Emma the other arm. 

They're several steps away when Freddy quips, "Lottie seems nice," making Emma snort. 

"Truly, I never thought I'd meet someone who's more of a rotten old shrew than my Auntie Inez," Emma replies. "I should write her a letter to warn her that someone's after her title." 

Freddy huffs. They walk several more steps before Emma says, "Mr. Frye was quick to your defense, wasn't he?" 

Jacob does have a tendency to leap to Freddy's defense in situations a bit more tense than the dinner table was: shooting or cutting down criminals a split-second before Freddy can clap them in irons. Either he suffers from an unsuppressible instinct to swoop in and save the day singlehanded…or he's just uniquely protective of Freddy. Either way, Jacob's uncommon talent for murder and mayhem seems to blind him to the fact that Freddy and his officers are trained to handle these situations as well, and they don't need Jacob Frye to do their work for them. These days ended with Freddy giving an indignant lecture on how they can't get confessions from corpses and Jacob looking a little sheepish (though never particularly sorry). 

But regarding this most recent demonstration, Freddy's says: "Honestly, I'm not sure that was about me." 

"Mmm, you're probably right." Emma pats his arm. "You are magnificent at your job, though. You know that, right?" Freddy does know that. He has more than two dozen commendations and awards in his office that tell him that. Still, his instinct is to downplay, to wave her off. 

They walk the rest of the way in companionable silence. When they reach the boulevard, Freddy lifts the tied cloth with the almond cakes and asks, "Do you want to find a pub so we can eat these?" 

"Er—no, no thank you," Emma says, glancing between Freddy and their dessert. "Take them with you to work tomorrow. I'd rather just go home, if that's all right with you." 

"Of course." Freddy looks her over. Emma virtually never says no to the pub. "Is everything…" 

"Yes," she says. "Yes, everything's fine. I'd just like to turn in a bit early." 

Freddy nods and hails a cab. He helps Emma up and gives the driver her address before following her inside. Technically Freddy's flat is a bit closer, but he wants to drop her off first, walk her to her door, all that. 

When Jacob came back from India and paid Freddy a visit to tell him about Ada, Freddy had wished so badly that he'd put it in a letter instead. It wouldn't have spared him the heartache, but it would have lessened the discomfort. At the time, Freddy didn't understand Jacob's insistence that he tell Freddy what happened face to face. But he understands it now. Jacob wanted an open door. He wanted dinners together (without Mrs. Gibbons, most likely, but still). He wanted Freddy to know his family and he wanted to meet Freddy's family, if he ever started one. A letter ending their relationship would have severed ties too impersonally and too completely. 

Freddy understands now. And even if he failed to tell Jacob about Emma before now, Freddy feels he owes him a conversation before he presents Emma the simple engagement band kept hidden in a strongbox in his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[Abberline and East End protection gangs](https://books.google.com/books/about/Abberline.html?id=Ph5ZLwEACAAJ%20)**  
>  Abberline didn't have a Jacob Frye to sic on the gangs in his parish, and more's the pity, because according to _Abberline: The Man Who Hunted Jack the Ripper_ breaking them up lawfully was...very hard.
> 
>  **Abberline's commendations**  
>  Abberline knew he was good. I wish I could track the quote down, but in an interview he gave in retirement he said something along the lines of, "I believe I was considered quite exceptional." Either way, [he racked up 84 police commendations over his career](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_Abberline), so the "more than two dozen" mentioned in this chapter is probably about on track for where he was at this point in his life.


	9. No Snare like Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little clump of warnings here: this chapter has a bit of language that is at best old-timey and at worst offensive, since neither 'homosexual' nor 'bisexual' were in use for at least another 20 years. It is also the second time the 'cheating' tag is relevant. And the last bit of the chapter s smutty.

**1874**

"About Emma," Freddy says as a silence falls.

Jacob watches Freddy fish for something in his inside pocket. He pulls out a ring, and haltingly sets it on the lacquered table with a click. Jacob looks at it, impassive, then forces a smile.

"I thought this might be what you wanted to talk about." Jacob dips his finger into the ring and drops it down to his second knuckle. The ring's gold and pretty, its face hammered with a pattern of curling vines and leaves. "Not once since we…split up have you called on me for anything but work."

"I thought I should tell you first," Freddy explains. He rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand, chuckling weakly. "Suddenly I don't remember why."

Jacob hands the ring back to Freddy. "So that I can be the first to congratulate you?" Jacob lifts his tankard for a toast and Freddy mirrors him, eyebrows drawing together. "To a…happy future with a beautiful bride."

"Cheers," Freddy murmurs, his smile faint.

Jacob knocks their tankards together with a little too much force, then finishes his beer in one, grimacing. Freddy tries to put his drink down after just one swallow, but Jacob reaches over to stop him. "No—keep drinking." He gets a palm under Freddy's tankard and taps the pewter with his fingertips. "Keep…there we go." Freddy scowls at him over the lip of the tankard, but he acquiesces and tips it all down.

"We're celebrating," Jacob announces, taking the empty tankard from Freddy and getting to his feet. He points at Freddy and asks, "I'll get us a bottle—whiskey or gin?"

Freddy falters, going, "Er…" and Jacob decides not to wait to take his request. The drink's not really for Freddy anyway.

While Jacob waits for their bottle, he lowers his head, hands braced on the bar, and briefly lets himself be sucked into the undertow of all the selfish, low feelings he shouldn't have.

Jacob loves his family, he reminds himself. And Freddy deserves to experience the same thing. Freddy deserves it more than Jacob does, really—Freddy's loyal and lawful and has earned a chance at 'happily-ever-after' thrice over at this point. So Jacob will play his part as supportive friend. It's the least he can do.

He returns to the table with two glasses pinched between his fingers and a toothy smile plastered on his face. "I chose whiskey."

Jacob pours Freddy two fingers of whiskey (and three for himself). He half-expects Freddy to refuse the drink when Jacob slides the glass over to him, but Freddy takes it and lifts it to his mouth for a swallow. Good man.

"When are you going to ask her?" Jacob says.

Freddy frowns, drinks again, then tells him, "I'm not sure. I've actually had the ring for ages."

Jacob pivots. "All right, then _how_ are you going to ask her?"

Freddy opens his mouth with a quick response, then pauses. He tilts his head and admits, "I'm not sure about that either."

Jacob squints at him and chuckles. "How did this happen? You were always such a planner." A bit like Evie that way, come to think of it. Maybe Freddy ended up with the wrong Frye.

Freddy offers him a wry sort of smile. "I must be taking after you now."

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that," Jacob mumbles into his glass, quirking an eyebrow.

Truly, he wouldn't. Jacob's route to marriage was—uncommon. It's worked out in the end, mostly. He and Ada are happy. Well, they're not _un_ happy. They have their problems. They bicker about meaningless things—the length of Jacob's hair, the way Jacob drives carriage, on and on. But the overarching and recurring argument is about division of labor and how Jacob routinely fails to keep up his end. He spends so much time tending to the Rooks and his initiates and doesn't leave enough time to help Ada with their son. But when she implores him to hire domestic help, Jacob refuses (this is the only page he'll take from his father's short book on managing a home and a family). Recently, Ada met that refusal with a brutal checkmate: she moved in her insidious mother.

But they have a perfect little son and a steady sort of partnership. Maybe their marriage isn't quite shaped the way they'd discussed, but they've got all their lives to get back on track.

"Any advice on keeping a long and happy marriage?" Freddy says, not meeting Jacob's eyes.

Jacob can't detect whether this is an ironic question. So he says the first thing that comes to mind, the thing he couldn't have anticipated because no one would dare share the knowledge: "Don't have a baby if you ever want to be allowed to suck on her nipples again."

Freddy turns a bit pink, but other than that doesn't have much of a reaction. He clears his throat and says, "Goodness," then finishes his whiskey. He sets the empty glass down in front of Jacob, who grins, delighted, and gives him a refill.

Jacob loves getting Freddy drunk. It makes him quicker to smile, quicker to laugh. And it's honest, deep laughter—not Freddy's usual reluctant chuckle. Drunk Freddy is an old friend who only comes around a couple of times a year but always has an unforgettable visit. Liquor forces Freddy out of his shell, strips away all his self-consciousness and propriety and leaves this bold, unfiltered Freddy in his place.

Freddy's nervousness is a sweet facet of his personality. It's fading a bit as they get older. Maybe it's the title of 'inspector.' Maybe it's Emma. But part of the reason Jacob was so forward with Freddy years ago was he liked that nervousness. He liked to prod and tease and get too close, making Freddy blush crimson and stare at his feet. It was a laugh and, looking back, it must have made Jacob feel more sure about himself by contrast. But as much as he liked Freddy's nervousness, he liked those rare moments of confidence so much more.

In private, after he had a few drinks in him, Freddy used to leave his shyness behind and show Jacob how he wanted him. Guiding Jacob's fingers to Freddy's rim. Pressing on Jacob's shoulders until he dropped to his knees. Once, quite notably, he looked Jacob dead in the eye and told him, 'Bring yourself off. I want to watch you.'

Remembering the look Freddy would get on his face when he took control is enough to make Jacob shiver. He finds himself thinking, _What I wouldn't give to do that just once more,_ then quashes it. That's definitely, definitely not allowed.

There are other ways to enjoy a visit from drunk Freddy, however. They leave the Ten Bells, warm and tottery from too much (just enough) whiskey, and Jacob claps a hand on Freddy's shoulder and points to the looming tower of Christ Church just down the street.

"Let's go up," Jacob says, smiling wide. "For old time's sake."

They've never climbed Christ Church Spitalfields, but they once ended up on top of St. Paul's…then they'd kissed and then things fell apart for a while, but Jacob doesn't intend to repeat that part of the experience.

Freddy understands what he means, though. And where sober Freddy would roll his eyes or shake his head and walk away without dignifying Jacob's stupid question with a response, drunk Freddy favors him with a slow smile and a little nod.

Upon closer examination, Jacob sees that there's nowhere to rest on the tower that supports Christ Church's spire. But they can sit on the roof over the church's nave. Jacob positions them by the back corner of the church near the rectory, and Freddy pats his hat down tighter on his head before dutifully wrapping his arms around Jacob's shoulders. Jacob aims his rope launcher and hooks into the roof.

Climbing with two people is as awkward and difficult as he remembers. Jacob goes as slow as he dares, kicking off the old stone walls of Christ Church. Freddy's knees come up and dig into Jacob's sides. The hardest part is when they make it to the top and have to pull themselves up over the eaves. Freddy's arms shake a bit as he goes.

Christ Church has a copper roof, long ago turned green and more recently stained with soot. They lie on their backs, breathing hard. Clouds are moving in above them, making the stars wink in and out. Rain must be coming.

Jacob rolls onto his side. Freddy's tipped his hat down over his eyes, like he might take a nap up here.

"After our years living in sin, do you think you're fit for it?" Jacob asks. "Life as a family man?"

He means it as a joke and, thankfully, Freddy takes it that way. He doesn't remove his hat from his eyes, but his mouth turns up in a sly smile. "You forget I've been married before."

"That's true. You were married before." Poor Martha. Maybe that's why Freddy's stalling when it comes to asking Emma to marry him—he's afraid that two months later, she'll be taken by consumption. No one's unlucky enough to lose two wives to illness, however. Not even Freddy. So Jacob moves on to his next question.

"Had you been with men before too?"

Freddy waits a beat, then tips his hat back with two fingers to look Jacob over and gauge his sincerity. "Did I never tell you about how I served thirty-five days in the militia?" he asks, sounding skeptical.

Jacob props himself up on his elbow and considers Freddy. Is that a euphemism? Can't be. "You did not tell me," Jacob says. "And I'm annoyed about it, because it sounds like it's a fantastic story." Freddy turns his head to face the sky again, but he looks at Jacob sidelong, wearing just a hint of a smile. "Was this before or after the clockmakers'?"

"After. I liked working for Mr. Hood, but…Dorset has a _proud history of standing by to repel the French_ ," Freddy says, deepening his voice for drama. "I suppose I got caught up by the recruiting posters. Don't laugh."

"I'm not laughing."

"You're about to."

"I'm not." Freddy raises his eyebrows and sends a long look in Jacob's direction, daring him to disobey. Jacob is a bit...giddy from the whiskey and the unused adrenaline, but he manages to keep a straight face long enough that Freddy looks away again. "In training, I made fast friends with a boy from Bridport. We stuck near each other at camp, spent evenings chatting about where we might end up if we were enlisted." Freddy makes an ambiguous gesture, long fingers wiggling in the air. "For all the patriotic fervor in those recruiting posters, the actual training was rather dull. We learned to march, we learned to shoot, we learned battlefield maneuvers. They were trying to teach us discipline, but our daily allowances went straight into the local publican's pocket."

"Come on, Freddy," Jacob rumbles, reaching over to nudge at his shoulder. "Skip to the good part."

" _One of those nights at the pub_ ," Freddy continues accusingly (apparently he was getting to the good part after all), "Otto and I—his name was Otto—we were talking about courting and intimacy and, well. We had a considerable amount of beer in our bellies, and Otto suggested we might train for this, just like we were training for the infantry." Freddy glances at Jacob, a significant look, as though Jacob might not understand the implication there.

"You're joking." Jacob does laugh now—it bubbles out of him, and once he starts he can't stop. He gets it under control, eventually, but his body shakes with the effort. His next words sound a little choked. "I used that very trick on a girl in Crawley once—'let's practice,' I said. I thought I was so clever. I can't believe you fell for that."

"'Falling for it' implies I wasn't a wholly willing participant," Freddy points out. "Ah, I remember he had these big long eyelashes. It seemed like a brilliant stroke of luck." Freddy turns on his side, mirroring Jacob's posture and propping his head on his hand.

"So did you? Practice your kissing, I mean?" Jacob asks. Freddy does a little nod and shrug. "Where?"

"Behind the pub."

"Only once?" Jacob's distantly aware he may sound too eager, but he feels like he's opened a naughty book and if he doesn't make it to the end now, someone might confiscate it.

"Ah, no—quite a few times," he says, all nonchalant, like Freddy kisses people—men—all the time in public. "By the barracks…in a park at night, mosquitoes everywhere. It's a marvel we weren't caught." He says this with a bit of the shock that rises with good hindsight. What would have happened if they were caught? The best case scenario would be them being discharged from the militia. The worst case...

Not wanting to follow that train of thought, Jacob asks, "Did you only kiss?"

Freddy adjusts his weight, trying to get comfortable on the metal roof. "So many questions," he mutters, then smiles.

Jacob looks at him, a little stunned. He tries to imagine a teenaged Freddy in his militia uniform trading secret touches with another boy in the dark. He feels a bit…jealous, which is odd.

"I wish I'd met this young Freddy, bored and looking to break some rules," Jacob says, and he means it. While Freddy was training in the militia and exploring intimacy, Jacob was peaking in directionless youthful rebellion and exploring ways to piss his father off. It would have been a rather symbiotic relationship, his and Freddy's. He murmurs, "Maybe you'd have let me practice my kissing on you."

Freddy chuckles. "No, I wouldn't have wanted to corrupt a tender…" he pauses to count back on his fingers, "sixteen-year-old."

"I don't know. Younger you sounds like he had pretty loose morals." Jacob nudges him in the arm, and Freddy chuckles again.

"Regardless, it was not meant to be. The militia bored me and my feelings for Otto frightened me. A few days before my twentieth birthday, I moved to London and swapped my red uniform for a blue one." Freddy shrugs one shoulder, the difficulty and strain that must have come with the decision faded with time.

Jacob asks, "Do you know what became of him?"

Freddy shakes his head. "I've considered looking him up on occasion. But I can't think of a good excuse to give the records office. Besides, I prefer to keep him as a memory. Safer that way. No one gets hurt."

He looks steadily at Jacob. Replace the copper roof with warm bedsheets and this is a position they've been in many times before. Jacob wants to tangle their legs together. He doesn't.

Jacob sits up, and the world tilts around him. Still drunk, then. Freddy sits up too, resting his forearms on his knees. They look out over the skyline, smoke curling from every chimney, lamps lit behind most of the windows.

Jacob drapes an arm around Freddy's shoulders. Softly, Freddy goes, "Hey…" but he doesn't move away.

"I'm happy for you, you know," Jacob says. And he means it. It's a complicated kind of happy—it wavers and squirms and kicks against its boundaries—but it's real. Seeing Freddy happy makes Jacob happy, full stop.

"I know." Freddy reaches up and squeezes Jacob's hand—a single, quick pulse that has the same effect on Jacob that dipping into a bath does. It warms him all over, past the surface of his skin. "Thank you."

—

Freddy's pacing on the street in front of Emma's flat, muttering to himself.

" _The first time we met, I almost let you slip away_ ," Freddy recites under his breath, quick and toneless, like he's reading a case report aloud. " _And I don't want to make that mistake again. Emma, will y_ —"

The front door clicks as it unlocks, and Freddy has only a second to check his jacket is straight before Emma opens the door and steps out. She offers him a subdued smile as she locks the door behind her, holding it shut with her palm.

"Hello," he says, and it comes out a bit choked. He clears his throat. "How are you, Emma?"

She tilts her head, considering, then opts to skip the first round of pleasantries. "Let's walk."

Emma lives close to a small garden square. Unlike the private ones in fashionable neighborhoods, it doesn't have paved footpaths, nor is it particularly well groomed. But Freddy likes how wildflowers and overgrown grass have taken over—it's remarkable how they can thrive here, in the shade from the surrounding buildings. It makes him wonder if he can tend a garden of his own in London's cramped, less-than-ideal conditions.

Freddy can't summon any small talk. Perhaps sensing his nervousness, Emma doesn't say anything either. They stop on the edge of the packed dirt path that cuts through the square, and Freddy releases Emma's arm and turns to face her. He takes a deep breath.

"Emma." Her brow wrinkles. "Before we met, I filled my time with police work to distract from what I was missing. I told myself that this was merely what dedication looked like. Dedication, not loneliness, and that I led a fine life. Then I met you."

Emma's eyes widen. "Fred…"

He presses on. He can feel his face heating up, even though he's not particularly embarrassed. The knowledge that he's blushing trips him up, gets him stammering. "You…make me so impossibly happy. I can't remember a time when the world felt so bright. Your cleverness, your laugh, your…your…" He shakes his head and goes for his breast pocket. "The first time we met—"

Emma holds up a hand. "Stop."

Freddy freezes, fingers jammed in his breast pocket, ring held between his index finger and his thumb. "Sorry?"

"Stop," she repeats. Emma takes a step backward, away from Freddy, looking at him like he's told her that her father's died. "Don't…don't say the rest, please." She holds her hand over her mouth. It shakes.

Freddy leaves the ring in his pocket. "What's wrong?"

Emma makes a half-turn, breaking eye contact. She rubs at her collarbone. "I shouldn't have let this go on so long."

"This?" Freddy echoes.

"Us."

With Emma's clarification comes a swell of queasiness. Freddy doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to hear more either. He wants to wind back, to figure out what he did to send this conversation in the wrong direction. But all he can think to say is, "I don't understand."

She's quiet for so long that Freddy opens his mouth to repeat himself a split-second before she murmurs, "He calls you 'Freddy.'"

If his hands weren't already sweating—nervous from his interrupted proposal—they'd surely start now. Freddy glances around, heart pounding. They're alone in the square. He does the foolish thing and plays dumb, asking, "Who does?"

Emma glances sideways at Freddy, all skepticism, then looks away. "At first I thought it was nothing," she says. "I thought, this man irks him so much, calling Fred a nickname he dislikes must be part of it. But then it all started to fit together. Watching you at dinner…" She trails off, shaking her head.

Freddy knows lying will make it worse. But he knows he's not ready to present the truth either. He swallows. "Emma, what are you saying?"

"Are you…" Emma's mouth is open, but no sound is coming out. "Are you and he…?"

Freddy has to push his answer past the lump in his throat. "No."

Emma takes a ragged breath. "Have you?"

Freddy's never admitted this to anyone. He'd always thought that when he finally did get to tell someone about his and Jacob's past that it would be an enormous relief. Not so. Right now he feels like he's balancing on one of the lost barrels always floating down the Thames. One foot wrong…

He wants to downplay. _We had a brush._ But he thinks Emma might slap him if he tries. So instead, he nods.

Emma's breath hitches. She's quiet a moment, turning her face ever so slightly so that she blocks Freddy from her periphery. She dabs at her eyes, quickly, like if she does it fast he might not notice.

"That's just my luck," she murmurs. A laugh bubbles out of her, warped and all wrong, something only akin to laughing. "Do you love him?"

Freddy breathes in, out. In. Out. "No."

"No?" she echoes. Freddy's reminded of the tone his schoolmistress used to take when he'd given the wrong answer. "So if you had the chance to be with him now, you wouldn't take it?"

Freddy chews on that. If Ada and Emmett weren't there, would Freddy be with Jacob, over Emma? Would he choose living in the shadows with someone who makes him want to pull out his hair over a steady, happy marriage with a woman who always keeps him on his toes?

"No," he says, again.

A sad, closed-lipped smile spreads on Emma's face. She turns to look at Freddy, eyes watery. "You shouldn't have to think about your answer, Fred."

Freddy's not sure how they got here. "I do love you, Emma," he says, straining to get things back on track. "I want to marry you."

He might as well have said it to a wall for all it changes. Emma's still fighting back tears, the tip of her nose gone red. "That's a nice sentiment, Fred," she says, voice wavering. "But I don't want to be your runner up. I don't want to stand by and suppress my suspicions about you and him or you and…other men. My answer is no."

She walks briskly past him, dipping her head so he can't meet her eyes. She's several strides away when he calls, "Emma, I don't…" He jogs a few steps, then stops. "Emma!"

Emma keeps walking. Freddy stops and watches her go. The chirps of birds and buzzing of insects living in the garden square fade away, as do the sounds of the busy streets beyond.

—

Jacob figures if he's going to play the role of supportive friend, he may as well commit. After they rappelled down from Christ Church and Freddy got his bearings, they picked a day for him to propose—Sunday—and then Freddy would send Jacob a note telling him how it went.

Sunday's a few days past now, though, and Jacob hasn't had a note from Freddy. Which means Freddy got cold feet. Of course he did; it's Freddy.

Jacob has a fuzzy memory of Freddy's address. He walked him home the other night…it's somewhere in Spitalfields. He slows at the end of every familiar street until he finds the correct one—Quaker Street, that's right. The street's dead quiet except for one drunk woman sitting on her stoop, singing off-key. Jacob tips his hat to her as he passes, and she stops her tune to giggle.

Getting past the front door is easy. Jacob scans the names scrawled on slips of paper tucked into the mailboxes and spots _F.G. Abberline_ written in Freddy's irritatingly impeccable handwriting. He's in number six. Jacob bounds up the stairs and knocks, then waits, watching shadows move through the light under the door. He has a fleeting sense of deja vu.

Freddy opens the door, and Jacob leans his palm against the doorframe. "You didn't go through with it, did you?" Jacob says, smirking. "White-liver. I told you if you couldn't bring yourself to ask her, you could write it down."

Freddy says nothing for a beat. When he replies, it comes out soft. "I did go through with it, actually."

Jacob raises his eyebrows. "And?"

Freddy drops his hand from the door. "She said no." He turns and walks into his flat, but leaves the door open behind him. Jacob stands outside for a minute, dumbstruck, then hurries to follow him inside.

Jacob's never been here before but it instantly feels familiar. Most of Freddy's old belongings from their shared rooms made it over—furniture, pictures, quilts. The smell of tobacco is a given with Freddy, but the thin haze lingering in the flat means he's been puffing on his pipe even more than usual.

"I've tried writing her," Freddy says, not looking at Jacob. "I waited for her outside the office like some…madman. She wants nothing to do with me." He's fussing with papers at his bureau, tossing them in the bin. Keeping his hands busy. Freddy does that—keeps busy when he's unhappy. "No, that's not it. She said she'll be my friend, but never my wife," he clarifies, then laughs bitingly.

Freddy keeps shuffling papers. Jacob tries to imagine Freddy proposing—all sweaty palms and fleeting eye contact—and then being told no. Freddy has a wide range of unhappy expressions, each only minutely different from the last, but Jacob can visualize the exact look he must have had when Emma turned him down. Jacob's been the cause of that look, too.

Imagining it makes him feel a bit ill.

Jacob should probably be offering condolences, but all he can manage is: " _Why_?"

Freddy returns his attention to Jacob and pauses, smoothing his shirt and tie. "She thinks I'm s—" Freddy stops, midway through a motion that appeared to be directed at him. Jacob tilts his head, waiting. Freddy sighs. "She thinks I'm a sodomite."

Jacob lets that hang between them, unsure of how to respond. After a beat, he ventures: "Well, you are a bit of one, aren't you?" Freddy groans, then stomps off to find something else to occupy him. Jacob raises his voice as he continues. "Emma's a modern woman. Surely she's met men of our…sort. What's the problem?"

"It's…" Freddy's poking viciously at the fire in the stove, breaking down crumbling wood and sending up sparks. He adds another log. "She knows about…us. That is to say, she suspected, and when she asked me, I couldn't lie."

Freddy glances back at Jacob, just a second, and the look is laced with blame. With hurt. He goes back to the fire, closing the stove door. The latch squeaks. He straightens up, dusts off his hands, but stays on his side of the flat, watching Jacob in his periphery.

Jacob has to keep so many secrets—about the Brotherhood, about the Rooks. Freddy and their shared past is the only secret that's never hurt. He guards their secret fiercely. Not because he fears consequences from the truth being out, no. It's just…that time belonged to them, and only them, and it was _good_. There were no nagging parents or nosy friends telling them whether they were going about things correctly. No ancient codices decreeing this or that, no magic baubles to be dug up then re-buried. It's silly, probably, but Emma stumbling upon the truth lights a jealous, protective little flame in him.

Jacob swallows. "How did she…?" Freddy shrugs, the quick and sullen way Jack often does when Jacob asks him a sensitive question. "But she knows we're…" Jacob makes a vague gesture, cutting the air between them.

"Dead and done?" Freddy supplies curtly. That chafes a little. "Yes."

Jacob glances around the room, thinking. "Then what's the problem?" Freddy turns to face him, finally, and walks back over. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

Freddy laughs again, unnaturally loud. "And tell her what, exactly? That I'm all right for used goods? That I'll wait around like some stupid…kicked dog even if she runs away to India for a year, and that I won't raise much of a fuss if she comes back and tells me she found someone better?"

At some point, Freddy's voice rose to shout. Jacob stares at him, slack jawed. "I'm trying to help you, Freddy. Don't be cross with me."

"Why not?" Freddy snaps.

"Because—"

"Because you've done nothing wrong?"

Jacob releases a thin breath through his nose. "That's not—"

" _Why_?"

"Because not everything can be my fault, Freddy!" Jacob spits back, matching his volume. "Christ…it's not like I can go back and un-fuck you, can I? If Emma has a problem with your past, don't put it on me. If I remember correctly, you and I were both—"

"She thinks I'm still in love with you!" Freddy blurts, cutting him off. Jacob shuts his mouth with a click. Freddy continues glaring for a few seconds, then breaks eye contact. He lifts a palm to his temple and releases a trembling breath. "It's not fair. You got to move on. How is it that what we had can reach out from the grave and keep me from doing the same?" Freddy swallows. "It's not fair."

Jacob feels hot all over. Maybe he can blame that on the fire growing in the stove, but the way his fingers twinge and tingle, the way his heartbeat picks up—that's something else. He waits for Freddy to lower his hand and look at him again. When he does, Freddy's expression wavers between angry and guilty. He doesn't say anything, just watches him.

Jacob asks, "Are you? Still…still?"

No response.

Jacob takes a step forward, and Freddy takes a half-step back. Another step and Jacob's crossed some invisible threshold, overcoming Freddy's flight instinct. His eyes pass over Jacob's face, blinking rapidly.

Voice low, Jacob asks the question again. "Are you?"

Freddy closes the space between them and kisses him, hard. It's comfortable and illicit all at once. Familiar but forbidden. Jacob doesn't think, just yields. He parts his lips for more, except Freddy's already pulling back, stepping away. Eyes lowered in shame, he murmurs, "I'm sorry. Dammit. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" Jacob can't quite hear him. He's thrumming from the inside out, shuddering like a rung bell.

Jacob reaches out and grabs Freddy by the face, trapping him, and surges forward for another kiss. Freddy welcomes him with a strangled noise, an open mouth. He pushes back. Their teeth clack. Their tongues meet. It's wet and sloppy and desperate—hands roving and finding nowhere to settle. Licking and biting, gasping like they're drowning.

 _Just once more._ That's his reasoning, rising above everything else—over the flares of guilt and nausea in his gut. Freddy sinks his teeth into Jacob's lower lip and Jacob whimpers, fingernails pricking his shoulders, hips twitching. _Just once more_ , he thinks as he fumbles with the buttons on Freddy's fly, hands shaking. He gives up on the buttons and shoves his hand down the front of Freddy's trousers, squeezing, stroking, making Freddy gasp and twist his hands in Jacob's shirt. He holds tight, bucking against Jacob's hip. Jacob tries to walk Freddy back toward the settee, but they drag each other to the floor instead.

Freddy goes for Jacob's fly. Trousers are dragged down, boots are yanked off. Jacob's hand is knocked away from Freddy's cock. A shove to Jacob's hip and he's turning himself over onto his elbows and knees. He's still wearing his shirt and vest and he likely looks ridiculous, but Jacob can't think of that now. Instead he's watching over his shoulder—view bisected by strands of hair—as Freddy sticks two fingers into his mouth and they come away glistening wet.

The first finger past his rim is a little too quick. Still, Jacob's mouth falls in a sigh; he forgot what it was like. It feels strange, at first. Like being turned inside out, bit by bit. Freddy adds a finger, and keeps pressing, searching, until eventually Jacob's more inside-out than inside-in. Then it's all instinct. He's made for this. He's made for this just like he's made for fighting, and his body takes over. Hips rising, muscles relaxing—it knows what to do.

Freddy settles between Jacob's knees. His fingers slide out and are replaced by the blunt head of his cock. Jacob's stomach twists—desire and something else—and he grinds back shamelessly.

"Please," Jacob says, not looking behind him. He hears Freddy's trembling sigh, then hears him spitting into his palm, slicking himself. Best he can do with the materials on hand, but not enough that Jacob won't be sore after this. He doesn't care.

Freddy pushes in. Jacob cries out, then gulps it back, lest they be overheard. In one long stroke, he's stretched full. It's too much, yet he's desperate for more. His legs drop farther open, splayed absurdly wide and bent at the knee. Freddy draws out and rocks his hips forward again, and Jacob notices the rub of fabric this time—Freddy hasn't bothered to remove his trousers. It's rushed, lecherous, and Jacob plays into it, arching his back. It elicits a little moan from Freddy and a rough push forward, so Jacob arches his back some more.

Freddy sets a harsh rhythm—driving in fast and hard, then faster and harder. The force of each thrust sings up Jacob's spine, and—hang the neighbors—he's moaning through it, wanton and reckless. It feels like his whole body must be opening up to accommodate Freddy, and it's so goddamn filthy that it's circled back to sublime.

Jacob tries to reach down to touch his cock—hard and leaking and horribly neglected—but he's shaking too much to bring himself off and keep his balance. He whines, a wordless plea, and a second later Freddy's got a hand wrapped tight around him, stroking him in time, the slick sound of it filling his ears. If Jacob's balance was dicey before, it's ruined now. Boneless, he slides forward on the heels of his hands until he's flat on his belly. Freddy goes with him, lying flat on top of him, still snapping his hips.

They race to the finish. Freddy's biting at Jacob's shoulder. Jacob's sobbing out every breath. The side of his face rubs against the carpet, and later he'll find rug burn on his cheekbone. Freddy has the courtesy to pull out before he comes, spilling over Jacob's spread thighs. Jacob twists halfway onto his side in order to bring himself off, gasping and shuddering as his hand whips up and down his cock. Freddy's panting against Jacob's neck, one hand pressed against his chest. It's intimate, and likely accidental, but it helps Jacob along anyway. His orgasm is quick and not particularly satisfying.

Afterward, after they've dressed again, they sit side-by-side on the floor. It's silent but for the fire crackling in the stove. Freddy wrings his hands. Jacob breathes evenly in and out. Never has getting what he wanted felt quite so foul.

Jacob forms a few different ways to soften the blow, but he nixes them down before he can say them. After all, softening the blow was what got them here. What they needed after India was a clean break, not a friendship. Like with Freddy's paramour in the militia—if Jacob had only allowed their relationship to fade into memory, no one would have gotten hurt.

_You'll always be dear to me, but…_

_I love you, but…_

"I don't think we should see each other anymore," Jacob murmurs. He doesn't look directly at Freddy as he says it—he can't—but in his periphery he sees Freddy nod in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  [ Abberline's militia days: ](https://books.google.com/books?id=SWgqVCSNwikC) **
> 
>  
> 
> "Abberline…served for thirty-five days in the militia. Why precisely Abberline joined, where exactly he served and what he did in terms of basic training and 'war games' we do not know. Virtually all the relevant papers of the Dorset Militia were lost to water damage in their store in the 1920s."
> 
> I'll admit it: I yanked the line about swapping a red uniform for a blue one right from there. It was a good visual; I couldn't resist. The same book linked above speculates where Abberline may have apprenticed as a clockmaker (with Robert Hood, briefly referenced in this chapter).


End file.
